SUGAR SHACK SLAYING

A LUCY BLACKSTONE MYSTERY

BOOK 2

MAISY MARPLE

with

WENDY WINCHESTER

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SUGAR SHACK SLAYING

In Brentwood Falls, someone has turned maple syrup into a recipe for murder.

When beloved maple syrup producer Otis McBride is found dead during the town's annual Maple Festival, everyone assumes it was a tragic accident. Everyone except Lucy Blackstone, that is. The town librarian and reluctant amateur sleuth can't help but notice that Otis—a meticulous craftsman who'd been making syrup for decades—was unlikely to make a fatal mistake in his process.

As Lucy begins asking questions, she discovers that Otis had recently uncovered troubling evidence of syrup tampering. Was it his rival Silas Boone, desperate to win the festival's blue ribbon after years in second place? His recently fired assistant Gus Wheeler? Or perhaps Amos Calloway, the smooth-talking businessman whose gift baskets featured "authentic" maple syrup that might not be so authentic after all?

With the festival in disarray and Sheriff Hank Pritchard warning her to stay out of police business, Lucy sets an ingenious trap to draw out the killer. But catching a murderer proves to be a sticky situation, and Lucy might find herself in over her head.

Full of small-town charm, delicious maple treats, and twisty surprises, this second Lucy Blackstone mystery proves that in Brentwood Falls, death can be just as sweet as maple syrup—and twice as deadly.

1

Lucy Blackstone believed two things with absolute certainty: a good book could solve most of life's problems, and a proper stack of pancakes drenched in authentic maple syrup could solve the rest.

The crisp March air carried the unmistakable aroma of maple as Lucy made her way through the bustling fairgrounds of Brentwood Falls' annual Maple Festival. Colorful banners proclaiming "Sweet Traditions Since 1892" fluttered overhead, while red-and-white striped tents housed eager vendors selling everything from maple candy to maple-scented candles.

"We have exactly seventeen minutes before the pancake eating contest starts," Maisie Carter declared, consulting the festival program with the precision of a military strategist. Lucy's best friend since college pushed her oversized sunglasses up on her nose and pointed toward a cluster of sugar shacks at the edge of the fairgrounds. "If we hurry, we can get to Otis McBride's booth before his premium syrup sells out."

Lucy adjusted her tote bag filled with library flyers—she never missed an opportunity for community outreach—and quickened her pace to match Maisie's determined stride.

"Remind me again why we can't just buy syrup at the grocery store?" Lucy teased, knowing full well the answer.

Maisie stopped short, her expression one of genuine horror. "Lucy Blackstone, as the town librarian I expected better from you. That's like suggesting people read the movie adaptation instead of the book!"

"I'm kidding," Lucy laughed, raising her hands in surrender. "I've been saving my pancakes all week for the real deal. Otis McBride's maple syrup is worth the wait."

"And the price," Maisie added with a sigh. "But some luxuries are non-negotiable."

They approached the row of rustic sugar shacks, each one featuring the distinct logo of a local producer. Otis McBride's stand was immediately recognizable by its vintage wooden sign hand-painted with "McBride's Maple Magic" and the line of customers stretching out from it.

"See? Everyone knows Otis has the best syrup in three counties," Maisie said, taking her place at the end of the line.

Lucy had to agree. Otis McBride was something of a legend in Brentwood Falls—a third-generation maple farmer whose traditional methods had earned him blue ribbons at the festival for fifteen consecutive years. His dedication to craft was matched only by his friendly demeanor, making his booth one of the most popular at the festival.

As the line inched forward, Lucy spotted Otis himself behind the counter. At sixty-something, with a salt-and-pepper beard and perpetually rosy cheeks, he looked exactly like a maple farmer should, complete with the obligatory flannel shirt and suspenders.

"Lucy Blackstone!" Otis called out when he saw her. "Just the person I wanted to see!"

"Hello, Otis," Lucy smiled, approaching the counter. "Don't tell me you're here to return an overdue book. The library's closed today."

"Nothing overdue about me, young lady," Otis chuckled. "But that book on historical syrup-making techniques you found for me? Pure gold." He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a worn leather-bound volume. "Been studying up on some old family methods. Got some new ideas that might just win me ribbon number sixteen."

"Glad it helped," Lucy said, genuinely pleased. As town librarian, she took particular pride in connecting residents with exactly the resources they needed. "Find anything particularly useful?"

"Oh, you bet," Otis' eyes twinkled with enthusiasm. "My great-grandfather had a special technique for controlling the caramelization process. Been experimenting with it all week."

Maisie cleared her throat meaningfully, eyeing the dwindling supply of bottles behind Otis. "Speaking of your magical maple creations..."

"Right, right," Otis grinned. "Can't keep a lady from her syrup. The usual for you two? One premium dark amber each?"

"You know us too well," Lucy confirmed.

As Otis turned to select their bottles, Lucy noticed his hands—calloused and weathered, but remarkably steady as he handled the glass containers with practiced care.

"Here you go," he said, presenting them with two bottles of rich, amber liquid that seemed to glow in the morning sunlight. "Just bottled yesterday. Best batch of the season, if I do say so myself."

Lucy paid for her bottle, admiring the beautiful maple leaf stamped into the wax seal. "You've outdone yourself this year, Otis."

"Let me know what you think," Otis said warmly. "I'm hoping to impress the judges tomorrow at the tasting competition."

"You're a shoe-in," Maisie assured him, carefully placing her treasure in her bag.

As they turned to leave, Lucy spotted a familiar face approaching the shack—Silas Boone, owner of Boone's Better Maple and Otis's longtime rival in the syrup business. Tall and lanky with perpetually furrowed brows, Silas had the look of a man who'd been sucking on something sour for most of his life.

"McBride," Silas nodded curtly as he reached the counter.

"Boone," Otis returned with equal brevity.

The temperature around the booth seemed to drop several degrees despite the warm spring day.

"Let's grab some maple cotton candy," Lucy suggested to Maisie, sensing the potential for an uncomfortable exchange. But before they could move away, Silas's voice rose sharply.

"You know darn well those were my customers first, McBride. The Hendersons have been buying Boone syrup for twenty years."

"Maybe they wanted a change," Otis replied evenly. "Free country, last I checked."

"It's not right and you know it," Silas insisted, leaning forward over the counter. "First the Hendersons, then the Bakers, now I hear you've been sweet-talking the folks at the Sunrise Diner about switching suppliers."

"I don't 'sweet-talk' anyone," Otis countered, his normally jovial expression hardening. "I let my syrup do the talking. Not my fault if it speaks louder than yours."

Silas's face flushed an alarming shade of red. "You think you're so clever with your fancy bottles and your blue ribbons. But I know things about your operation that would make those ribbons curl up and die from shame."

"Is that a threat, Boone?" Otis straightened to his full height, impressive even behind the counter.

"It's a promise," Silas hissed. "This town's not big enough for two premium syrup producers, and I've been here longer. Remember that."

With that ominous declaration, Silas turned on his heel and stormed off, nearly colliding with an elderly couple approaching the booth.

"Well," Maisie breathed once Silas was out of earshot. "That was intense."

Otis waved a dismissive hand, though Lucy noticed his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Don't mind old Silas. All bark, no bite. Been trying to outdo me at the festival for years. Never has, never will."

"Still," Lucy said, concerned. "That sounded like more than just competitive spirit."

"Ah, it's maple season," Otis shrugged. "Tensions always run high. Nothing to worry about."

Lucy wasn't entirely convinced, but Otis had already turned his attention to his next customers, his characteristic cheerfulness seemingly restored.

"Come on," Maisie tugged at Lucy's arm. "I can smell those maple-bacon donuts calling my name."

They spent the next few hours immersed in the festival's offerings—watching the maple taffy pull, browsing crafts made from maple wood, and cheering on the surprisingly competitive pancake eating contest.

"I don't think I can look at another pancake for at least twelve hours," Lucy groaned as they collapsed onto a bench near the bandstand, where a local bluegrass group was setting up for the afternoon performance.

"Amateur," Maisie scoffed, licking maple sugar from her fingers. "The maple ice cream competition isn't until four."

Lucy laughed, then paused as her phone buzzed with an incoming text. "It's Dot," she said, referring to her assistant at the library. "Wants to know if we can bring her back some maple cream."

"Add it to the list," Maisie nodded, pulling out her own phone to check the time. "We should head over to the sugar shack demonstrations soon if we want good seats. Otis is showing his evaporation process at three."

But as they stood to leave, a commotion near the festival entrance caught Lucy's attention. A woman was running toward the information booth, her face pale with shock.

"Something's wrong," Lucy murmured, watching as festival officials quickly gathered around the distraught woman.

Within minutes, the cheerful atmosphere of the festival shifted dramatically. Urgent whispers spread through the crowd like wildfire. Sheriff Hank Pritchard's patrol car pulled up with lights flashing but no siren, and the officer himself strode purposefully toward the sugar shack area.

Lucy and Maisie exchanged concerned glances.

"Let's see what's happening," Lucy suggested, already moving in the direction of the growing crowd near Otis's demonstration shack.

They couldn't get close—Deputy Otis McBride (no relation to the syrup maker) was already stringing yellow caution tape around the perimeter—but the horrified murmurs from bystanders told them enough.

"It's Otis McBride," an ashen-faced woman told her companion. "Found dead in his sugar shack. Poor man."

Lucy felt as though the ground had shifted beneath her feet. "That can't be right," she said to Maisie. "We just saw him. He was fine."

"Miss Blackstone," Sheriff Pritchard's deep voice interrupted her denial. "Thought I might find you here."

Lucy turned to find the sheriff regarding her with a mixture of resignation and concern. In his early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and perpetually tired eyes, Hank Pritchard had been Brentwood Falls' sheriff for over a decade—long enough to have developed a healthy wariness of Lucy's tendency to insert herself into his investigations.

"Hank," Lucy acknowledged. "What happened? Someone said Otis⁠—"

"I'm afraid it's true," Hank confirmed, his voice low. "Otis McBride was found deceased in his demonstration shack about twenty minutes ago."

"But how?" Maisie pressed, her face pale beneath her freckles. "He was perfectly fine this morning."

Hank hesitated, glancing at the growing crowd of onlookers. "Appears to be an accidental poisoning. Preliminary assessment suggests he ingested something toxic while working with his syrup."

"That doesn't make any sense," Lucy objected immediately. "Otis knew everything there was to know about maple syrup production. He wouldn't make a mistake like that."

"Even experts get careless sometimes," Hank replied, though she detected a note of uncertainty in his voice. "We found him with a testing ladle still in his hand. Looks like he was sampling a new batch."

"A new batch using his great-grandfather's technique," Lucy murmured, remembering their conversation from earlier. "He mentioned he'd been experimenting."

"Well, there you have it," Hank said. "Probably tried something new that went wrong. Terrible accident, but these things happen."

Lucy frowned, not satisfied with this explanation. "Who found him?"

"Festival volunteer," Hank replied. "Went to check if he was ready for his demonstration." He gave her a knowing look. "And before you ask—yes, we'll run a full toxicology report, but these things take time."

"Of course," Lucy nodded, her mind already racing. "Has anyone told⁠—"

"We're notifying next of kin now," Hank cut her off. "His niece in Millfield. Otis never married, as you know."

A shout from inside the sugar shack drew the sheriff's attention. "I need to get back," he said. "The festival committee is discussing whether to continue events tomorrow. For now, they're asking everyone to clear the area."

As he turned to leave, Lucy called after him, "What about Silas Boone?"

Hank paused. "What about him?"

"We overheard him having a pretty heated argument with Otis this morning," Lucy explained. "Making threats about Otis stealing his customers."

The sheriff's eyes narrowed slightly. "What kind of threats, exactly?"

"He said he knew things about Otis's operation that would 'make his blue ribbons curl up and die from shame,'" Lucy quoted. "And something about the town not being big enough for two premium syrup producers."

"I'll look into it," Hank promised, though his tone suggested he wasn't taking the information too seriously. "But like I said, all evidence points to an unfortunate accident. Otis was alone in that shack for at least an hour before he was found."

With that, he returned to the crime scene, leaving Lucy and Maisie standing at the edge of the growing crowd of shocked festival-goers.

"Poor Otis," Maisie murmured. "I can't believe it."

Lucy stared at the sugar shack, now surrounded by police tape and curious onlookers. Something didn't add up. Otis McBride had been making maple syrup for over forty years without incident. His hands were steady, his mind sharp. The idea that he would suddenly make a fatal mistake in his process seemed implausible.

And then there was Silas Boone's angry confrontation. Just a heated exchange between rivals, or something more sinister?

"Lucy," Maisie said warily, recognizing the expression on her friend's face. "I know that look."

"What look?" Lucy asked innocently.

"The 'I'm about to stick my nose where it doesn't belong' look," Maisie clarified. "The same one you had right before you solved Winnie Baxter's murder."

Lucy couldn't deny it. Ever since helping to solve the Sweet Delight Bakery murder last fall, she'd developed something of a reputation in Brentwood Falls. Some called it meddling; she preferred to think of it as civic-minded inquiry.

"Hank said it was an accident," Maisie reminded her.

"Hank said it appears to be an accident," Lucy corrected. "There's a difference."

Maisie sighed deeply. "You're going to investigate this, aren't you?"

Lucy cast one more glance at the sugar shack, where Otis McBride's body was now being carefully removed on a stretcher, a sheet covering his familiar form. The bottle of premium syrup he'd handed her just hours earlier suddenly felt heavier in her tote bag.

"Otis was meticulous about his craft," Lucy said quietly. "There's no way he accidentally poisoned himself. Something else happened in that sugar shack today, and I intend to find out what."

Maisie linked her arm through Lucy's as festival officials began gently directing people toward the exits. "Well, if you're determined to stick your nose into another murder investigation, at least you won't be doing it alone."

"Who said anything about murder?" Lucy asked, though her tone lacked conviction.

Maisie gave her a knowing look. "Please. A prominent local businessman found dead right before the biggest competition of the year, after a public argument with his chief rival? If this were one of your mystery novels, it would be called 'Murder Most Maple.'"

Despite the gravity of the situation, Lucy couldn't help but smile. "That's actually not a bad title."

As they made their way toward the parking lot, Lucy's mind was already cataloging questions, potential witnesses, and theories. If Otis McBride's death wasn't the accident Sheriff Pritchard believed it to be, then someone at the Maple Festival had murder on their mind—and Lucy was determined to tap into the truth, one clue at a time.

2

The morning after Otis McBride's death dawned with an appropriately somber gray sky. Lucy stood at her kitchen window, watching raindrops slide down the glass while her coffee brewed. Her copy of the Brentwood Falls Gazette lay open on the counter, its front page dominated by the headline: "BELOVED MAPLE FARMER DIES IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT."

Lucy frowned at the word "accident." Sheriff Pritchard had wasted no time establishing the official narrative, but she remained unconvinced. The Otis McBride she knew wouldn't make a fatal error in his syrup-making process any more than she would shelve Agatha Christie in the children's section.

Her phone buzzed with an incoming text from Maisie: "Festival officially postponed until 'further notice.' Town in shock. You still think foul play?"

Lucy typed back: "Yes. Meeting me at McBride's in 30?"

The response came quickly: "You want to break into a crime scene? Again? Have you learned nothing?"

Lucy smiled despite herself and replied: "I prefer the term 'reconnaissance.' Besides, Hank said it was an accident, so technically not a crime scene anymore."

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared before Maisie's answer came through: "Fine. But I'm just the lookout this time. And we're bringing donuts after."

Twenty-eight minutes later, Lucy parked her sensible blue hatchback on the muddy access road behind Otis McBride's property. His sugar shack stood a hundred yards from the main house, partially concealed by a grove of maple trees. The morning rain had temporarily paused, leaving everything damp and dripping.

Maisie's red SUV pulled up moments later, and her friend emerged looking like she'd dressed for a spy movie—black raincoat, black hat, even black rubber boots.

"What?" Maisie defended when she caught Lucy's amused expression. "I'm taking my lookout duties seriously."

"We're just checking things out," Lucy reminded her. "The police tape is gone, see? They've already processed the scene."

"Still doesn't mean we should be here," Maisie muttered, following Lucy toward the sugar shack. "What exactly are we looking for anyway?"

"I'll know it when I see it," Lucy replied, which earned her an eye roll from Maisie.

The sugar shack door wasn't locked—a testament to the trusting nature of Brentwood Falls rather than an oversight by law enforcement. Lucy pushed it open, wincing at the creaking hinges.

Inside, the air still carried the rich aroma of maple, but beneath it lurked something sharper, medicinal. The evaporator—a long, rectangular pan where sap was boiled down to syrup—sat cold and empty, its surface wiped clean. Too clean, Lucy thought, considering Otis had supposedly been in the middle of processing when he died.

"Look around," Lucy instructed. "Anything that seems out of place."

"It all seems out of place to me," Maisie admitted, eyeing the complicated equipment with uncertainty. "I have no idea how any of this works."

Lucy moved toward the workbench where various testing equipment was arranged in meticulous order—hydrometers for measuring sugar content, thermometers, filtering equipment, and glass jars for samples. Everything appeared obsessively organized, reinforcing her belief that Otis was too methodical to make a deadly mistake.

"The sheriff said they found him with a testing ladle," Lucy murmured, examining the collection of long-handled metal spoons hanging from hooks. One was indeed missing.

"So he tasted something he shouldn't have," Maisie suggested, poking hesitantly at a stack of empty buckets.

"But why would he taste anything suspicious?" Lucy countered. "Otis could practically identify syrup grades blindfolded."

She moved toward the back of the shack where dozens of wooden barrels were stacked, each marked with a production date and grade. Some were sealed for aging, while others had spigots for bottling. As she examined the barrels, Lucy noticed a small gap behind one stack, just large enough to conceal something.

"Hello, what's this?" she murmured, carefully shifting a barrel to peer into the space.

There, wedged against the wall, was a worn leather ledger. Lucy reached for it, her heart quickening. Before she could grab it, however, a voice from outside froze her in place.

"Hello? Anyone in there?"

Maisie's eyes widened in panic. "I thought I was supposed to be the lookout!" she hissed.

"You are the lookout!" Lucy whispered back.

"I was examining these fascinating... buckets!"

Lucy quickly pushed the barrel back into place, making a mental note of the ledger's location. "Just act natural," she instructed, straightening up as the sugar shack door swung open.

A woman in her thirties with McBride's same ruddy complexion stepped inside, her surprised expression quickly turning suspicious. "Who are you and what are you doing in my uncle's sugar shack?"

Lucy stepped forward with her most professional librarian smile. "I'm Lucy Blackstone from the town library, and this is my friend Maisie Carter. We were... returning a book that Otis borrowed." She gestured vaguely toward her tote bag.

"In his sugar shack?" the woman asked skeptically.

"It's about maple syrup production," Lucy improvised. "We thought it might be where he'd want it kept. And you must be..."

"Ellie McBride," the woman replied, her posture softening slightly. "Otis's niece from Millfield."

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Lucy said sincerely. "Otis was a wonderful man. Everyone in town adored him."

Ellie's stern expression cracked slightly. "Thank you. It still doesn't feel real. The sheriff says it was an accident, but Uncle Otis was always so careful with his process."

Lucy exchanged a quick glance with Maisie before asking, "You don't think it was an accident either?"

"I didn't say that," Ellie backpedaled. "It's just... unexpected." She looked around the sugar shack with watery eyes. "I need to inventory everything before deciding what to do with the business."

"We'll get out of your way," Lucy offered, inching toward the door while silently cursing the missed opportunity to examine the hidden ledger. "If there's anything we can do to help..."

"Actually," Ellie said, "did my uncle happen to mention any problems to you recently? With the business, I mean."

Lucy hesitated, weighing how much to share. "He did seem to have some tension with Silas Boone. We overheard them arguing at the festival yesterday morning."

Ellie's expression darkened. "Silas Boone. I should have known. Those two have been feuding for years, but it got worse recently."

"How so?" Lucy prompted.

"Customer poaching, price undercutting, the usual competitive stuff. But Uncle Otis mentioned something about Silas spreading rumors about his syrup quality." Ellie shook her head. "It upset him more than usual."

"Did he mention anyone else causing problems?" Maisie asked. "Former employees, maybe?"

A flash of recognition crossed Ellie's face. "Gus Wheeler. Uncle Otis fired him about three weeks ago. Caught him snooping around after hours, he said. Next thing I heard, Gus was working for Silas."

Lucy filed this information away. "Well, we should let you get to your inventory. Again, we're so sorry about Otis."

Outside, once they were safely back at their cars, Maisie rounded on Lucy. "A book? That was your brilliant cover story?"

"It worked, didn't it?" Lucy defended. "And we learned some useful information. Ellie doesn't believe it was an accident either, Silas and Otis's feud was escalating, and there's a fired employee now working for the competition."

"And a mysterious ledger you couldn't grab," Maisie added. "What's our next move, Nancy Drew? Breaking and entering: Round Two?"

Lucy shook her head. "No need for that yet. I think it's time we paid a visit to Silas Boone. His farm isn't far from here."

Maisie groaned but dutifully followed Lucy back to their vehicles. "Fine, but we're stopping for those donuts first. If I'm going to be an accessory to amateur sleuthing, I'm doing it properly fueled."

Boone's Better Maple occupied a sprawling property on the eastern edge of Brentwood Falls. Unlike Otis's traditional setup, Silas had modernized his operation with vacuum pumps and a state-of-the-art evaporator house that resembled a small factory more than a sugar shack.

Lucy and Maisie pulled up to the main building, where a sign advertised "FARM TOURS & TASTINGS DAILY." Today, however, a smaller sign had been added: "CLOSED DUE TO RECENT EVENTS."

"At least he's showing some respect," Maisie observed, brushing powdered sugar from her coat.

As they approached the building, a tall figure emerged from a side door. Silas Boone looked even more dour than he had at the festival, his perpetual frown deepened by what appeared to be a sleepless night.

"We're closed," he called out when he spotted them. "Festival's been postponed, if you haven't heard."

"Actually, Mr. Boone, we were hoping to talk to you," Lucy replied, putting on her most disarming smile. "I'm Lucy Blackstone from the town library."

"The librarian," Silas said flatly. "I know who you are. Word gets around when someone starts playing detective." He crossed his arms. "Let me guess—you don't think Otis's death was an accident."

Lucy blinked, momentarily thrown by his directness. "I'm simply gathering information. You had a rather public disagreement with Otis yesterday morning."

Silas's expression hardened. "And now I'm what—suspect number one? Typical small-town thinking."

"Nobody said anything about suspects," Maisie interjected. "We're just trying to understand what happened."

"What happened," Silas enunciated clearly, "was an accident. Otis got careless with his fancy old techniques, and now he's gone. End of story."

"You mentioned something about knowing things that would make his blue ribbons 'curl up and die from shame,'" Lucy pressed. "What did you mean by that?"

A muscle twitched in Silas's jaw. "Just competitive talk. Nothing serious."

"Serious enough that you were shouting about it in public," Lucy observed.

Silas took a deep breath, visibly trying to rein in his temper. "Look, Otis and I had our differences. He undercut my prices, sweet-talked my long-time customers into switching suppliers, and the festival judges always favored his 'traditional methods' over innovation. It was frustrating."

"Frustrating enough to do something about it?" Lucy suggested.

Silas's face flushed with anger. "I didn't kill him, if that's what you're implying. I was home all afternoon yesterday. My wife can confirm it."

"How convenient," Maisie murmured, not quite under her breath.

"Believe what you want," Silas snapped. "But I didn't need to harm Otis to beat him. I was going to win the tasting competition fair and square this year." His expression shifted subtly. "My new blend was going to change everything."

"New blend?" Lucy inquired.

Before Silas could respond, the door behind him opened again, and a stocky man in his twenties emerged. He froze when he spotted Lucy and Maisie, his eyes immediately darting away.

"Gus," Silas addressed him, "I thought you were cleaning the filters."

"Finished early," Gus Wheeler mumbled, still avoiding eye contact. "Need to check the lines now."

Lucy studied Otis's former employee with interest. With his perpetually hunched shoulders and nervous demeanor, Gus looked like someone with something to hide.

"Mr. Wheeler," Lucy called out. "I'd love to talk with you for a moment about Otis McBride."

Gus's head snapped up, panic flashing across his features. "I got nothing to say about Otis," he insisted. "Sorry for his accident and all, but I don't work for him anymore."

"I heard he fired you," Lucy said directly. "That must have been upsetting."

"It was a mutual decision," Gus muttered unconvincingly.

Silas interjected, "Gus doesn't need to talk to you. Neither of us does. Now if you'll excuse us, we have work to do even if the festival's been postponed."

"Just one more question," Lucy persisted. "Did either of you know about anyone tampering with Otis's syrup barrels recently?"

It was a shot in the dark, but the reaction was immediate and telling. Gus paled visibly, while Silas's expression froze in a mask of carefully controlled neutrality.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Silas said evenly. "And I think it's time for you to leave."

"Come on, Gus," Lucy tried once more. "If you know something⁠—"

"I said he's got nothing to say," Silas cut in, stepping between them. "Now, I'm asking politely. Leave my property, or I'll call Sheriff Pritchard and report you for harassment."

Recognizing they'd reached an impasse, Lucy nodded. "We'll go. But this conversation isn't over, Mr. Boone."

As they walked back to their cars, Maisie whispered, "Did you see Gus's face when you mentioned the tampering? He looked like he was about to faint."

"Definitely hiding something," Lucy agreed. "And Silas was too quick to shut down that line of questioning."

"So what's our next move?" Maisie asked as they reached their vehicles.

"We need to get back to Otis's sugar shack and find that ledger," Lucy decided. "But first, I want to check something at the library."

The Brentwood Falls Public Library was closed for the day out of respect for Otis, but Lucy had keys and the authority to enter for "essential business." Whether investigating a possible murder qualified as essential was debatable, but she chose not to debate it.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Maisie asked as Lucy unlocked the side entrance.

"Otis mentioned tampering with his barrels recently," Lucy explained. "I want to see if he returned that book on historical syrup-making techniques. He might have left notes in it."

Inside, the library was eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the soft hum of the heating system. Lucy headed straight for the returns cart, but the book wasn't there. She checked the reshelving area next, then the processing desk.

"Found something," Maisie called from near the front desk. "Is this it?"

She held up a leather-bound volume titled "Traditional Maple Methods: A Historical Compendium."

"That's it," Lucy confirmed, taking the book. "It must have been in Otis's possession when... when it happened. Ellie probably returned it this morning."

Lucy carefully opened the book, immediately noticing small sticky notes protruding from various pages. Otis had been a conscientious library patron—he'd used removable markers rather than writing directly in the book.

"Look at this," she murmured, turning to a heavily annotated section on testing procedures. Otis had attached a detailed note about optimal temperatures for different grades of syrup.

As she flipped through the pages, a folded piece of paper slipped out from between the chapters on storage and bottling. Lucy unfolded it to find a handwritten note in Otis's distinctive scrawl:

"Found third barrel tampered with. Same as others. Lock installed. Called HP about it, but not optimistic. If this continues, will need to move entire stock."

"HP," Maisie read over Lucy's shoulder. "Hank Pritchard?"

"Must be," Lucy agreed. "Otis reported the tampering to the sheriff."

"So Hank knew someone was messing with Otis's operation," Maisie said slowly. "Yet he immediately ruled the death an accident?"

Lucy frowned, turning the note over. On the back was a hastily scribbled addendum: "Caught G.W. in shack after hours. Fired immediately. Problem solved?"

"G.W.," Lucy read aloud. "Gus Wheeler."

"The plot thickens," Maisie remarked. "Gus tampers with syrup barrels, gets fired, immediately goes to work for the competition, and then Otis turns up dead?"

"It's definitely suspicious," Lucy agreed. "But there's still the question of motive. Why would Gus want to harm Otis or his business?"

"Money?" Maisie suggested. "Maybe Silas paid him to sabotage the competition."

"Possibly," Lucy mused. "Or maybe there's something else going on we don't know about yet." She carefully refolded the note and slipped it into her pocket. "We need that ledger from behind the barrels. It might tell us what Otis was really worried about."

Maisie checked her watch. "Ellie's probably still at the sugar shack doing inventory. We can't just waltz back in there."

"No," Lucy agreed, "but I know someone who might be able to help us get access, legitimately this time."

"Who?"

Lucy smiled. "Dot Fletcher. She's Ellie's second cousin on her mother's side. Small towns have their advantages."

As they locked up the library, Lucy's mind raced with new questions. If Gus Wheeler had been tampering with Otis's syrup barrels, what exactly was he doing? And if Otis had caught him and fired him, why would Gus risk returning to finish the job? Unless it wasn't Gus who poisoned Otis at all, but someone else entirely...

One thing was becoming increasingly clear: Otis McBride's death was no accident. Someone had deliberately silenced Brentwood Falls' premier maple syrup producer, and Lucy was determined to uncover the truth hiding beneath the sweet facade.

3

"You're absolutely certain Dot can get us in?" Maisie asked for the third time as they drove along the winding country road toward the northeastern edge of Brentwood Falls.

Lucy nodded, keeping her eyes on the muddy path ahead. The rain had returned, pattering steadily against the windshield. "Dot already texted Ellie. She's conveniently invited us to help catalog Otis's syrup inventory for 'insurance purposes.' Completely above board."

"Right," Maisie drawled. "Just three women with a deep passion for maple syrup classification systems."

"Technically, only one of us has to be passionate about classification systems," Lucy pointed out. "And that's covered, thanks to my library science degree."

Before heading to Otis's sugar shack, however, they had another stop to make. Lucy turned onto a narrower road marked by a hand-painted sign: "Maple Haven Farm – Higgins Family Since 1938."

Unlike the commercial operations run by Otis and Silas, Marnie Higgins' maple farm was a smaller affair, focusing on specialty products like maple candies, maple-infused spirits, and gourmet gift baskets. The modest farmhouse and adjacent barn had a welcoming, homey quality that contrasted sharply with Silas Boone's industrial setup.

"Remind me why we're talking to Marnie before going to the sugar shack?" Maisie asked as they pulled up to the farmhouse.

"Because she and Otis were friends for over forty years," Lucy explained. "If anyone knows what he was really up to, it's Marnie."

They found Marnie Higgins in her demonstration kitchen, stirring a bubbling pot of what smelled like maple-walnut fudge. At seventy-something, with silver hair pulled back in a practical bun and cheeks perpetually flushed from standing over hot stoves, Marnie embodied the grandmother stereotype—until she opened her mouth.

"Well, if it isn't Brentwood Falls' very own Jessica Fletcher," Marnie greeted Lucy, her voice rough from decades of cigarettes she'd given up five years too late. "Wondered how long it would take you to show up at my door."

"Hello, Marnie," Lucy smiled, unfazed. "This is my friend Maisie Carter."

"Carter... you're Evelyn's girl, aren't you?" Marnie squinted at Maisie. "Your mother makes those awful gingerbread cookies for the Christmas bazaar. Too much clove, not enough molasses."

"I'll be sure to pass along your critique," Maisie replied dryly.

Marnie grunted, turning back to her fudge. "I know why you're here. You're poking around Otis's death." She removed the pot from the heat with practiced ease. "The sheriff says it was an accident."

"Do you believe that?" Lucy asked directly.

Marnie's hands stilled for a moment before resuming their work, pouring the fudge into a waiting pan. "Otis McBride boiled his first batch of syrup when he was eight years old. By twelve, he could identify grades blindfolded. By twenty, he could spot contamination from a hundred paces." She set the empty pot aside with a clang. "That man didn't accidentally poison himself. Someone helped him along."

Lucy exchanged a meaningful glance with Maisie. "We thought the same thing. That's why we're here."

"Sit," Marnie commanded, gesturing to the kitchen table. "I'll make tea. Can't talk murder on an empty stomach."

Soon they were settled with steaming mugs of maple-infused black tea and slices of maple coffee cake that Marnie insisted they try.

"Otis came to see me three days before the festival," Marnie began without preamble. "He was worked up about something he'd found in his syrup stock."

"What kind of something?" Lucy prompted.

"Contamination, but not the natural kind. Someone had been tampering with his reserve barrels." Marnie leaned forward, lowering her voice as if the walls might be listening. "He'd caught that Wheeler boy sneaking around after hours, thought firing him had solved the problem. But then he found more barrels affected."

"Affected how?" Maisie asked.

"Diluted," Marnie replied with the gravity of someone discussing high treason. "Cut with something. Otis tested it himself and found corn syrup mixed in. Not a lot—just enough to stretch the product without being immediately obvious."

Lucy frowned. "But why would someone dilute syrup that was still in barrels at Otis's own sugar shack?"

Marnie's eyes hardened. "That's where it gets interesting. These weren't just any barrels—they were part of a large order for Amos Calloway."

"Calloway Pantry Products?" Maisie clarified. "The gift basket company?"

"The very same," Marnie confirmed. "Amos contracted with Otis three years ago to supply 'premium local maple syrup' for his gourmet gift baskets. Big operation—ships all over the country. Charges top dollar for 'authentic New England experiences in a box.'" She made air quotes with gnarled fingers.

"I'm guessing the authentic experience doesn't include corn syrup," Lucy observed.

"Exactly," Marnie jabbed a finger toward Lucy. "Otis suspected Amos was diluting the syrup after purchase to increase profits. But then he found pre-diluted barrels in his own sugar shack—barrels that were earmarked for Calloway. Someone was tampering with the product before it ever left Otis's property."

"Gus Wheeler," Lucy murmured. "Otis caught him and fired him."

"That's what he thought at first," Marnie nodded. "But the tampering continued. And here's the kicker—Otis set up a trail camera after firing Wheeler. Caught someone else on film, but wouldn't tell me who."

Lucy leaned forward eagerly. "Did he report this to Sheriff Pritchard?"

"Tried to," Marnie snorted. "Hank told him to install better locks and file a formal report later. Said he was busy preparing for the festival's security."

"So Otis had evidence of someone tampering with his syrup, and the sheriff brushed him off," Maisie summarized. "Then Otis turns up dead, and Hank immediately calls it an accident? That seems..."

"Convenient," Lucy finished for her. "Did Otis mention confronting anyone besides Gus about the tampering?"

Marnie hesitated, her weathered face uncharacteristically uncertain. "He said he was going to 'follow the money.' Said he had proof in his records that would blow the whole thing wide open." She sighed heavily. "I told him to be careful. In this business, reputation is everything. If word got out that McBride syrup wasn't pure..."

"His blue ribbons would curl up and die from shame," Lucy quoted softly, remembering Silas Boone's threat.

Marnie's eyes narrowed. "Is that what Silas said to him? The nerve of that man." She shook her head. "Silas has been trying to discredit Otis for years. Always insinuating that traditional methods can't guarantee quality like his fancy equipment can."

"Could Silas have been behind the tampering?" Maisie suggested. "Maybe trying to sabotage Otis's reputation?"

"Possible," Marnie acknowledged. "Silas is ambitious and not overly burdened by ethics. But this scheme seems too elaborate for him. Silas is more of a direct confrontation type."

Lucy sipped her tea thoughtfully. "We really need to see Otis's records. He mentioned a ledger where he kept track of his syrup stock and sales."

"The red leather one?" Marnie asked. "He always kept it in the sugar shack, hidden behind the reserve barrels. Said it was safer there than in the house."

Lucy's pulse quickened. It had to be the same ledger she'd spotted earlier. "That's the one we need to find."

Marnie studied them for a moment, then rose with a decisive nod. "Well then, what are you waiting for? Otis deserves justice, not some convenient accident report." She grabbed a rain jacket from a hook by the door. "I'm coming with you. Ellie knows me—I can help convince her to let us look around."

The rain had settled into a steady drizzle by the time they arrived at Otis's farm. Ellie's car was still parked outside the sugar shack, and Dot Fletcher's compact sedan had joined it.

"Reinforcements have arrived," Maisie noted as they pulled up.

Marnie didn't wait for them, marching straight to the sugar shack with the determined gait of a woman on a mission. By the time Lucy and Maisie caught up, she was already embracing Ellie in a tight hug.

"...such a shock, dear," Marnie was saying. "Your uncle was the best of us. Always had been, since we were kids together."

Ellie McBride nodded tearfully. "Thank you for coming, Marnie. I've been trying to make sense of everything."

"We all are," Marnie assured her, then turned to Dot, who stood nearby with a clipboard. "Dorothy Fletcher, still counting other people's belongings, I see."

"Hello to you too, Marnie," Dot replied with the long-suffering tone of someone used to Marnie's particular brand of affection. She brightened when she spotted Lucy. "There you are! I've started an inventory system for the bottled stock, but I could use help with the classification."

"Happy to assist," Lucy smiled, stepping into the sugar shack. Her eyes immediately sought out the stack of barrels where she'd spotted the ledger earlier.

Ellie seemed grateful for the additional help, especially when Marnie steered the conversation toward practical matters like what to do with outstanding orders and festival commitments. Lucy seized the opportunity to move toward the barrel stack, Maisie following close behind.

"Keep watch," Lucy whispered. "Make sure Ellie doesn't see what I'm doing."

Maisie nodded, positioning herself to block the view while pretending to examine syrup samples on a nearby shelf.

Lucy carefully shifted the front barrel just enough to access the gap behind the stack. The red leather ledger was still there, wedged securely against the wall. She extracted it gently and slipped it into her tote bag, then repositioned the barrel.

"Got it," she murmured to Maisie, who gave a subtle thumbs-up.

They rejoined the others, where Dot was explaining her organizational system with the enthusiasm only a true cataloging enthusiast could muster.

"...and I've color-coded each section by grade and production date," she was saying. "The amber bottles get blue tags, the dark amber gets red tags, and the very dark gets green."

"That's very... thorough," Ellie commented, looking slightly overwhelmed.

"Dot is our organizational expert at the library," Lucy interjected smoothly. "We'd be lost without her systems."

"Speaking of systems," Maisie added, "did your uncle keep any records of his production and sales? That would help with the insurance claim, I imagine."

Lucy held her breath, waiting for Ellie's response.

"He had a ledger," Ellie confirmed. "I've been looking for it all morning, but haven't found it yet. Sheriff Pritchard asked about it too when he came by earlier."

Lucy's grip tightened on her tote bag. "The sheriff was here? Today?"

"About an hour ago," Ellie nodded. "Said he needed to check something for his report. Seemed annoyed when I couldn't find the ledger."

That was interesting. What had changed to make Hank suddenly interested in Otis's records?

"Maybe we can help look for it," Lucy suggested innocently.

"Actually," Marnie interrupted, "before we tear this place apart, I think you should all see something." She pulled out her phone and opened an email. "The state medical examiner sent preliminary findings to all the maple association members as a safety precaution. Thought we should know what happened to Otis in case it was equipment-related."

Lucy, Maisie, and Dot gathered around as Marnie held up her phone. The email was brief but devastatingly clear:

"Preliminary toxicology results for Otis McBride indicate presence of sodium cyanide in fatal concentrations. This chemical is NOT associated with standard maple syrup production. Investigation upgraded to suspicious death. Safety alert level: High. All producers advised to secure facilities and inspect products."

"Sodium cyanide?" Ellie's voice shook. "That's... that's poison."

"That's murder," Marnie corrected grimly. "Just as we suspected."

"The sheriff knows," Lucy realized. "That's why he was looking for the ledger. He needs to figure out who had access and motive."

"We should call him," Dot suggested, already reaching for her phone. "Tell him we know it was murder."

"Wait," Lucy stopped her. "Let's see what's in the ledger first. Otis uncovered something important—important enough that someone killed him to keep it quiet."

Ellie stared at her. "You have the ledger? Where?"

Lucy hesitated, then pulled the red book from her tote bag. "I found it earlier, hidden behind those barrels. I was going to give it to you, but after hearing about the cyanide..."

"You think my uncle's murderer is in that book," Ellie finished for her.

"It's possible," Lucy admitted. "Otis was investigating something before he died. The ledger might tell us what—or who."

After a moment of tense silence, Ellie nodded. "Let's see it, then. I want to know who killed him just as much as you do."

They cleared a space on the workbench, and Lucy carefully opened the worn leather cover. Inside, Otis's neat handwriting filled page after page with meticulous records—dates, barrel numbers, grades, quantities, and customers.

"He documented everything," Maisie marveled, peering over Lucy's shoulder.

"Otis was old-school," Marnie said. "Kept better records with pen and paper than most people do with fancy computer programs."

Lucy flipped to the most recent entries, finding the last week's records. Most entries followed the same format, but several jumped out immediately—large bulk orders for "A. Calloway" with unusual annotations.

"Look at this," Lucy pointed to a note beside one entry: "Barrel #47 - tested 31% dilution (!!) after delivery confirmation. Compare to pre-ship sample."

Several more recent entries showed similar annotations, with increasing alarm evident in Otis's notes:

"Barrel #52 - 28% dilution. Not processed here." "Barrel #58 - 35% dilution + artificial flavor. NOT FROM MY SUGAR SHACK." "Barrel #63 - Confronted A.C. re: tampering. Denied everything. Threatened contract cancellation if I 'spread rumors.'"

And the final entry, dated just two days before the festival:

"PROOF OBTAINED. Camera footage shows G.W. + unknown subject tampering with Calloway barrels on-site. Meeting A.C. at festival to show evidence and demand explanation."

"He was going to confront Amos Calloway at the festival," Lucy said, looking up from the ledger. "With proof that someone was tampering with the syrup sold under his name."

"I know Amos Calloway," Dot chimed in. "His company ships hundreds of 'authentic New England' gift baskets every month. They advertise 'premium 100% pure maple syrup' as their signature item."

"Except it wasn't 100% pure," Maisie concluded. "Someone was diluting it with cheaper ingredients to increase profits, and Otis found out."

"And the dilution was happening right here, before the syrup even left Otis's property," Lucy added. "That's why he installed the camera after firing Gus Wheeler. He suspected someone else was involved."

"Is the camera still here?" Lucy asked, looking around the sugar shack.

Ellie shook her head. "I haven't seen any camera. The sheriff didn't mention one either."

"Whoever killed Otis probably took it," Marnie suggested grimly. "Destroyed the evidence."

Lucy turned back to the ledger, flipping to earlier pages. "Look at the pattern here. The bulk orders for Calloway started three years ago at normal volumes. Then they tripled about eighteen months ago, but the payment amounts didn't increase proportionally."

"They were getting more syrup for less money," Maisie observed.

"Or the same amount of 'syrup' that was increasingly diluted," Lucy corrected. "If you're cutting pure maple syrup with corn syrup and artificial flavoring, you can stretch your supply significantly."

"But why involve Otis's actual sugar shack in the fraud?" Dot wondered. "Why not just dilute it after purchase?"

"Authenticity," Marnie answered sharply. "If the containers were filled right here, they could truthfully say it came directly from McBride's, one of the most respected producers in New England. No middleman, no processing facility—just pure syrup straight from the source."

"Which means Amos needed someone with access to Otis's sugar shack," Lucy continued the thought. "Someone who could tamper with the barrels before they were shipped."

"Gus Wheeler," Ellie said softly. "Uncle Otis trusted him completely until he caught him sneaking around after hours."

"But the tampering continued after Gus was fired," Lucy reminded them. "The ledger mentions an 'unknown subject' on the camera footage."

"We need to find that footage," Maisie declared. "And we need to talk to Amos Calloway."

Lucy nodded in agreement. "Otis was supposed to meet Amos at the festival to confront him. Instead, he ended up dead—poisoned by cyanide in his own sugar shack."

"The timing can't be coincidental," Marnie said darkly. "Someone made sure Otis couldn't expose their scheme."

"I should call Sheriff Pritchard," Ellie decided, reaching for her phone. "Show him the ledger."

Lucy hesitated, suddenly uncertain. "Wait... Otis tried to report the tampering to Hank earlier, and he was brushed off. Then the sheriff immediately ruled Otis's death an accident, even though the circumstances were suspicious. And now he's looking for this ledger."

"What are you suggesting?" Dot asked, her eyes wide.

"I'm not suggesting anything yet," Lucy answered carefully. "But I think we should make a copy of the ledger before turning it over. Just to be safe."

"The copy machine at the library," Maisie nodded. "We can do it right away."

"I'll take pictures of every page with my phone too," Lucy added. "Multiple backups."

Ellie looked conflicted. "You really think we can't trust Sheriff Pritchard?"

"I think," Lucy said diplomatically, "that we need to be careful. Otis was killed because he discovered something that someone wanted to keep hidden. Until we know who that someone is, we can't be too cautious."

After a moment's consideration, Ellie nodded. "You're right. Make your copies. But then we contact the sheriff. If my uncle was murdered, I want his killer brought to justice. Properly."

"Agreed," Lucy assured her. "And with what's in this ledger, I think we're one step closer to finding out who that is."

As they prepared to leave, Lucy couldn't shake a growing sense of unease. The scheme they'd uncovered seemed too sophisticated for someone like Gus Wheeler to mastermind, and even Amos Calloway would have needed local help to access Otis's sugar shack repeatedly.

The "unknown subject" on Otis's camera footage might be the key to everything—and Lucy was determined to discover their identity before they realized the ledger had been found.

Because whoever had silenced Otis McBride wouldn't hesitate to silence anyone else who threatened to expose their sweet-tasting fraud.

4

"Istill think we should have waited for Sheriff Pritchard," Dot fretted as she finished making the last copy of Otis's ledger pages. The Brentwood Falls Public Library remained officially closed, but the four women had slipped in through the staff entrance to use the copier.

"We're not waiting," Marnie declared, organizing the copies into a folder. "We're being thorough. There's a difference."

"A difference Sheriff Pritchard might not appreciate," Dot pointed out, glancing nervously at the window as if expecting the lawman to appear at any moment.

Lucy carefully returned the original ledger to her tote bag. "We'll call Hank as soon as we finish here. But first, I think we need to pay a visit to Calloway Pantry Products."

"All of us?" Ellie asked.

"Actually," Lucy replied thoughtfully, "I think it might be better if just Maisie and I go. A smaller group will attract less attention."

"And what are we supposed to do?" Marnie demanded, clearly not thrilled about being sidelined.

"You and Ellie should go through Otis's house," Lucy suggested. "Look for any other evidence he might have gathered—notes, photographs, that missing camera. Dot can coordinate with Sheriff Pritchard when we're ready to bring him in."

Marnie grudgingly admitted this was a sensible approach. "Fine. But you call us the minute you learn anything from Calloway. And be careful—if he's involved in Otis's death, he won't hesitate to try the same with you two."

"We'll be in a public business during working hours," Maisie reassured her. "Safety in numbers and all that."

"That's what Otis probably thought at the festival," Marnie muttered darkly.

With their plan settled, they parted ways outside the library. Dot returned to her cataloging duties with the promise to stay by the phone. Ellie and Marnie headed to Otis's farmhouse, while Lucy and Maisie climbed into Lucy's car for the twenty-minute drive to the industrial park on the outskirts of Millfield where Calloway Pantry Products maintained its headquarters.

"So what's our approach going to be?" Maisie asked as they pulled onto the highway. "We can't exactly accuse a prominent businessman of murder without evidence."

"We're not accusing anyone yet," Lucy clarified. "We're just asking questions about Amos's business relationship with Otis. Completely reasonable given the circumstances."

"And our cover story?"

Lucy hesitated. "I hadn't thought that far ahead."

Maisie rolled her eyes. "Some detective you are. How about we're writing an article about local food producers for the Brentwood Falls Gazette? In memory of Otis."

"That could work," Lucy nodded. "We'd need to interview several maple syrup suppliers to make it believable, though."

"We already have," Maisie pointed out. "Silas Boone, Marnie Higgins... we're just adding Amos Calloway to our list."

Lucy shot her friend an impressed look. "Have you been taking notes on my investigative techniques?"

"Someone has to be the brains of this operation," Maisie replied with a grin.

Calloway Pantry Products occupied a sprawling complex of modern buildings with a rustic-themed facade meant to evoke New England charm—despite being surrounded by concrete parking lots and chain-link fences. The main office building featured a reception area decorated with oversized photos of maple trees, lobster boats, and autumn foliage.

"Nothing says 'authentic New England experience' like mass production," Maisie whispered as they approached the reception desk.

A cheerful young woman greeted them with a practiced smile. "Welcome to Calloway Pantry Products. How can I help you today?"

Lucy stepped forward with her most professional librarian demeanor. "Good afternoon. I'm Lucy Blackstone and this is Maisie Carter. We're working on a feature about local food producers for the Brentwood Falls Gazette, focusing on maple syrup suppliers in honor of Otis McBride. We were hoping to speak with Mr. Calloway."

The receptionist's smile faltered slightly at the mention of Otis. "I'm afraid Mr. Calloway is extremely busy today. Perhaps I could arrange an interview for next week?"

"That's unfortunate," Lucy said. "Our deadline is rather tight, given the circumstances. We'd be happy to speak with anyone knowledgeable about your maple syrup sourcing."

After a moment's hesitation, the receptionist picked up her phone and murmured into it, too quietly for Lucy to hear. After a brief exchange, she hung up and said, "Jennifer Reid, our production manager, can spare a few minutes. She can show you around the facility while we see if Mr. Calloway becomes available."

"That would be perfect," Lucy smiled. "Thank you."

Jennifer Reid turned out to be a brisk, efficiency-minded woman in her forties with a clipboard permanently attached to her hand and a bluetooth earpiece that occasionally blinked blue. She led Lucy and Maisie through a series of warehouses and processing areas, explaining the company's operations with practiced ease.

"We source our products from over fifty local suppliers across New England," she explained as they walked past workers packing gift baskets with military precision. "Everything from maple syrup to blueberry jam to artisanal cheeses."

"And Otis McBride was one of your maple suppliers, correct?" Lucy asked.

Jennifer nodded. "McBride's was our premium line. We have... had a three-year exclusive contract for their top-grade syrup."

"That must have been a significant portion of your maple offerings," Lucy probed.

"About thirty percent of our total maple volume," Jennifer confirmed. "Which, frankly, creates quite a problem for us now." She sighed. "Otis's death couldn't have come at a worse time. We're heading into our spring shipping season, and our inventory is suddenly uncertain."

"I imagine you'll need to find a new supplier quickly," Maisie commented, watching Jennifer's reaction carefully.

"We're already exploring options," Jennifer replied, her expression carefully neutral.

As they turned a corner, Lucy spotted a section of the warehouse where workers were bottling amber liquid into containers labeled "PURE NEW ENGLAND MAPLE SYRUP – PREMIUM GRADE." She paused, watching the process.

"Is that McBride's syrup being bottled now?" she asked innocently.

Jennifer hesitated. "That's... from our reserve supply. We're trying to fulfill outstanding orders."

Lucy noticed the syrup seemed lighter in color than Otis's premium grade typically was. "It looks a bit different from what I remember of McBride's syrup."

"Lighting in here isn't great," Jennifer said quickly. "Plus, we blend batches for consistency."

"Blend?" Lucy echoed. "I thought premium syrup was sold as single-source."

Jennifer's professional smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "I meant we standardize across shipments. Customers expect the same product every time."

Before Lucy could press further, a door at the end of the warehouse opened, and a tall man in an expensive suit strode toward them. In his late fifties, with silver temples and the confident bearing of someone used to giving orders, Amos Calloway cut an impressive figure.

"Jennifer, there you are," he called out. "I wanted to discuss the—" He stopped short upon noticing Lucy and Maisie. "I wasn't aware we had visitors today."

"Mr. Calloway," Jennifer said, sounding relieved by the interruption. "These ladies are from the Brentwood Falls Gazette, working on an article about local food producers. They were particularly interested in our relationship with McBride's Maple."

"Ah." Amos's expression revealed nothing as he extended his hand. "A terrible tragedy, what happened to Otis. He was one of our most valued suppliers."

"You knew him well?" Lucy inquired, shaking his hand.

"As well as any business associate," Amos replied smoothly. "We had a mutually beneficial arrangement for several years."

"How will his death affect your premium maple syrup line?" Maisie asked.

"We'll manage," Amos assured her with practiced confidence. "Jennifer, why don't you see if the marketing department has those press materials ready? I can take over the tour from here."

Jennifer seemed all too happy to be dismissed, hurrying away with a nod to Lucy and Maisie.

"Now then," Amos continued, "what exactly is your article focusing on? The maple industry in general, or Otis specifically?"

"Both, really," Lucy answered. "We're exploring the relationships between producers like Otis and distributors like yourself. I understand your company markets McBride's syrup as 100% pure, premium grade."

"The finest in New England," Amos confirmed. "Our customers expect nothing less."

"And you can guarantee that quality?" Lucy pressed. "Even with such large volumes?"

Something flickered behind Amos's eyes—caution, perhaps, or irritation. "Our quality control is exceptional, Ms...?"

"Blackstone. Lucy Blackstone."

"Ah, the librarian," Amos nodded, his tone shifting subtly. "I've heard about you. You fancy yourself something of an amateur detective, I'm told."

Lucy maintained her pleasant expression despite the implied accusation. "I'm just thorough in my research."

"Indeed." Amos's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Well, to satisfy your thorough research: yes, we guarantee the quality of all our products. Every bottle that leaves this facility meets or exceeds industry standards."

"Interesting," Lucy mused. "Because Otis seemed concerned about the quality of syrup being sold under his name."

The change in Amos was subtle but unmistakable—a slight tensing of his shoulders, a tightening around his mouth. "Oh? And when did he express this concern?"

"Recently," Lucy said vaguely. "He mentioned testing samples and finding inconsistencies."

Amos let out a short laugh. "Otis was getting older. His testing methods were... outdated. We run everything through modern equipment here."

"Equipment that wouldn't detect, say, corn syrup mixed with artificial maple flavoring?" Maisie suggested innocently.

The jovial mask slipped entirely from Amos's face. "I think this tour has reached its conclusion, ladies. If you have further questions about our business practices, I suggest you direct them to our legal department."

"One more question, Mr. Calloway," Lucy said quickly. "Were you planning to meet with Otis at the Maple Festival? Before his unfortunate accident?"

Amos stared at her coldly. "No. We had no scheduled meeting." He gestured toward the exit. "Jennifer will see you out. Good day."

As they were escorted to the reception area by a suddenly reappeared Jennifer, Lucy noticed workers hurriedly closing doors to processing areas they'd passed earlier. The bottling operation they'd observed was now completely hidden from view.

Once they were back in Lucy's car, Maisie let out a long breath. "Well, that went well. We're clearly not getting invited back for the company picnic."

"Did you see his reaction when we mentioned corn syrup?" Lucy asked, starting the engine. "He practically threw us out."

"And denied having a meeting scheduled with Otis, which directly contradicts what was in the ledger," Maisie added. "So what's our next move?"

Lucy checked her phone. "No messages from Ellie or Marnie yet. I say we head back to Brentwood Falls and check in with them before⁠—"

Her phone rang, interrupting her. The screen displayed Sheriff Pritchard's number.

"Uh-oh," Maisie murmured. "Busted."

Lucy sighed and answered the call. "Hello, Sheriff."

"Lucy Blackstone," Hank's voice carried the weary resignation of a man who'd expected better but wasn't surprised to be disappointed. "Want to explain why Dot Fletcher is nervously tap-dancing around my questions about Otis McBride's missing ledger?"

"I can explain—" Lucy began.

"Save it," Hank cut her off. "Meet me at the station in thirty minutes. And bring whatever evidence you've 'borrowed' from my crime scene."

"So you're officially calling it a crime scene now?" Lucy couldn't help asking.

A heavy sigh came through the phone. "Thirty minutes, Lucy. Don't make me come looking for you." The line went dead.

"That sounded ominous," Maisie observed.

"He knows it's murder," Lucy said, pulling out of the parking lot. "The cyanide report must have reached him too."

"Think he'll arrest us for tampering with evidence?"

"Probably just a stern lecture," Lucy replied, though she wasn't entirely certain. "Either way, we need to tell him what we've found—especially about Calloway's reaction just now."

They made the drive back to Brentwood Falls in record time, pulling into the sheriff's station parking lot with three minutes to spare. Sheriff Pritchard was waiting for them at the entrance, his expression conveying volumes without a single word.

"My office," he said simply, holding the door open.

Inside, they found Dot already seated, looking like she wanted to disappear into the industrial carpet. To Lucy's surprise, Ellie and Marnie were there too, the latter wearing an expression of defiant indignation.

"Your posse's all here," Hank commented dryly, taking his seat behind the desk. "Now, would someone like to explain why you're all conducting a parallel murder investigation without bothering to inform law enforcement?"

"We were going to call you," Lucy began.

"After making copies of evidence, interviewing witnesses, and confronting a potential suspect," Hank finished for her. "Yes, Amos Calloway already called to complain about two 'nosy reporters' asking pointed questions about his business practices."

"That was fast," Maisie muttered.

"You're lucky he didn't realize you were actually investigating a murder," Hank continued. "You could have put yourselves in serious danger."

"With all due respect, Sheriff," Marnie interjected, "we discovered it was murder before you did. Or at least before you admitted it publicly."

Hank turned his stern gaze to her. "I received the toxicology report this morning, Ms. Higgins. Before that, I had no concrete evidence of foul play."

"But you suspected it," Lucy challenged. "That's why you were looking for Otis's ledger."

Hank's silence was confirmation enough.

"We found it," Lucy admitted, pulling the red leather book from her tote bag and placing it on his desk. "And it contains detailed notes about syrup tampering, confrontations with Amos Calloway, and evidence that Otis was planning to expose a counterfeit syrup operation at the festival."

Hank picked up the ledger, leafing through it with practiced efficiency. "This is why I told you to stay out of it, Lucy. You're involving yourselves in a complex investigation that might include corporate fraud, evidence tampering, and now murder."

"But—" Lucy started.

"No buts," Hank cut her off. "Interfering in an active murder investigation isn't just dangerous—it's potentially illegal. You could compromise evidence, spook suspects, or worse, make yourselves targets."

"We found something else," Ellie said quietly, speaking up for the first time. "At Uncle Otis's house." She placed a partially burned piece of paper on the desk. "It was in the woodstove, only partly burned. I think someone tried to destroy it but was interrupted."

Lucy leaned forward to see what appeared to be the beginning of a letter in Otis's handwriting:

"To the New England Maple Association Board:

I regret to inform you of a serious violation of industry standards and potentially criminal fraud being perpetrated by Calloway Pantry Products with the unwitting assistance of McBride's Maple. Evidence has come to my attention that maple syrup marketed as '100% Pure Premium Grade' from my sugar shack has been systematically diluted with corn syrup and artificial flavoring.

The adulteration appears to be happening through a sophisticated operation involving..."

The rest of the letter had been burned away.

"Where did you find this?" Hank asked Ellie.

"In the woodstove in Uncle Otis's study," she replied. "The fire had gone out before it could burn completely. There were ashes from other papers that weren't so lucky."

"Someone was destroying evidence," Lucy realized.

"The same someone who took the security camera Otis installed in his sugar shack," Marnie added. "We couldn't find it anywhere."

Hank leaned back in his chair, absorbing this new information. "Alright," he finally said. "I appreciate you bringing this to me. But now I need all of you to step back and let me do my job."

"But we have essential insights into the case," Lucy protested.

"Which you've now shared," Hank countered. "I understand your connection to Otis, but this is officially a homicide investigation, and I can't have civilians running around questioning suspects."

"What about Gus Wheeler?" Lucy asked. "Otis caught him tampering with syrup barrels before firing him. Then he ends up working for Silas Boone, and the tampering continues with an 'unknown subject.' Doesn't that seem suspicious?"

"Yes, it does," Hank agreed. "And I'll be questioning Mr. Wheeler thoroughly. But that's my job, not yours."

"Sheriff," Maisie interjected, "we're not trying to take over your investigation. We just want to help find justice for Otis."

Hank's expression softened slightly. "I know. And I give you my word that I'm taking this case very seriously. But conducting your own interrogations puts both the investigation and yourselves at risk." He looked directly at Lucy. "Whoever killed Otis did it to silence him. What do you think they'd do if they realized you were gathering evidence against them?"

A sobering silence fell over the room as the implication sank in.

"Fine," Lucy conceded reluctantly. "We'll stop actively investigating. But will you at least keep us informed about progress in the case?"

"Within reason," Hank hedged. "And in return, you promise to come to me immediately if you remember or discover anything else relevant to the case. Deal?"

"Deal," Lucy nodded, though she couldn't quite meet his eyes.

Hank noticed her hesitation. "Lucy?"

"I said deal," she repeated more firmly. "But there is one more thing you should know."

"What's that?"

"When we were at Calloway's facility, we saw them bottling what they claimed was reserve stock of McBride's syrup," Lucy explained. "But it looked different—lighter in color. And the production manager mentioned they 'blend' batches for consistency."

"You think they're already continuing the dilution without Otis to object," Hank surmised.

"It would make sense," Ellie said. "Their spring shipping season is starting, according to what they told Lucy. They can't afford to lose thirty percent of their maple inventory."

"I'll look into it," Hank promised, making a note. "Now, is there anything else you haven't told me? Any other evidence you've 'borrowed' or witnesses you've questioned?"

The five women exchanged glances before shaking their heads in unison.

"Alright then," Hank stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "I'll need formal statements from each of you about your findings, and then you're all going to go home and leave the detective work to the professionals. Clear?"

After providing their statements and being firmly but politely escorted from the sheriff's station, Lucy, Maisie, Dot, Ellie, and Marnie gathered in the parking lot.

"Well, that could have gone worse," Maisie observed. "At least he didn't arrest us."

"Yet," Dot added nervously.

"So we're really just going to back off and let the sheriff handle everything?" Marnie asked, eyeing Lucy skeptically.

Lucy chose her words carefully. "I promised we'd stop actively investigating. And we will." She paused. "But that doesn't mean we can't continue discussing what we already know among ourselves."

"Lucy..." Dot's tone held a warning.

"What?" Lucy asked innocently. "Discussion isn't investigation. And if we happen to remember something important, we'll take it straight to Sheriff Pritchard, just like we promised."

"Why do I feel like you're already planning your next move?" Ellie asked, a reluctant smile playing at her lips.

Lucy shrugged. "Old habits die hard. But for now, I think we should all go home and process what we've learned today. It's been a lot to take in."

As they prepared to part ways, Lucy couldn't help thinking about Gus Wheeler and his role in all this. Otis had caught him tampering with syrup barrels, but was he just a pawn in a larger scheme? And if so, who was really calling the shots?

Despite her promise to Sheriff Pritchard, Lucy knew she wouldn't be able to simply set these questions aside. Someone had killed Otis McBride to protect a profitable fraud, and Lucy was determined to see justice served—even if she had to be a bit more discreet about her methods going forward.

After all, she reasoned, sometimes the best investigations happened between the lines, just like the best stories in her library.

5

"Ispecifically recall Sheriff Pritchard using the phrase 'leave the detective work to the professionals,'" Maisie whispered as she and Lucy crouched behind a dumpster outside Calloway Pantry Products. The morning fog provided additional cover, but did nothing to improve the smell of their hiding spot.

"We're not detecting," Lucy countered, peering around the corner at the loading dock. "We're... observing."

"From behind a dumpster. At six in the morning." Maisie adjusted her position, wincing as her foot began to cramp. "Remind me why I let you talk me into these things?"

"Because deep down, you enjoy them," Lucy replied with a grin. "Besides, we're not breaking any promises. Sheriff Pritchard said to stop actively investigating, and technically, we're just passively watching."

"I'm sure that distinction will hold up perfectly when he's booking us for trespassing."

Despite her complaints, Maisie remained in position as they monitored the early morning activity at Calloway's facility. After yesterday's confrontation with the sheriff, Lucy had spent a restless night thinking about Amos Calloway's operation. Something about the way the workers had hurriedly closed doors during their tour nagged at her—what exactly were they trying to hide?

So here they were, watching the delivery entrance during what Lucy had guessed would be shift change. Her instinct proved correct as trucks began arriving shortly after 5:30 AM.

"Look," Lucy whispered, pointing to a semi-truck backing up to the loading dock. "That's not a delivery truck—it's for pickup. See the Calloway logo?"

Workers began loading pallets of boxed products into the trailer, moving with the efficiency of a regular routine.

"Spring shipping season," Maisie murmured. "Just like Jennifer said yesterday."

"But where are they getting the syrup to fill all those orders?" Lucy wondered aloud. "If Otis supplied thirty percent of their maple volume and he's...gone, they should be scrambling."

As if in answer to her question, a smaller box truck arrived, bearing the logo of a local food supply company. Unlike the outgoing shipments, this delivery was directed to a side entrance, away from the main loading dock.

"That's interesting," Lucy noted. "Let's get a closer look."

"Of course we will," Maisie sighed, following Lucy as she darted between parked vehicles toward the side of the building.

They reached a chain-link fence that offered a view of the secondary entrance just as workers began unloading the truck. Instead of the finished products or artisanal goods one might expect, they were hauling industrial-sized containers of clear syrup.

"That's not maple," Lucy whispered. "That's corn syrup. Look at the labels."

Indeed, the workers were unloading massive drums labeled "HIGH FRUCTOSE CORN SYRUP - FOOD GRADE" and wheeling them inside.

"Maybe they use it for other products?" Maisie suggested halfheartedly.

Lucy shook her head. "That much? Right after losing their major maple supplier? I don't think so."

They watched for several more minutes as the delivery was completed. Through the propped-open door, they could glimpse workers moving about in what appeared to be a mixing room.

"We need to see what's happening in there," Lucy decided.

"And how exactly do you propose we do that?" Maisie asked. "We can't just walk in the front door again."

Lucy scanned the building, her gaze landing on a small window about seven feet up the wall. "There. That window looks into the side room. If we could get up there..."

"No," Maisie said firmly. "Absolutely not. That's breaking and entering."

"Not if we don't break or enter," Lucy reasoned. "Just peek through the window from outside."

"And how do you suggest we reach a window seven feet off the ground?"

Lucy grinned and pointed to a stack of empty pallets nearby. "The universe provides."

Five minutes and several splinters later, they had constructed a precarious but functional viewing platform. Lucy carefully climbed up while Maisie kept watch.

"See anything?" Maisie hissed from below.

"Oh my," Lucy breathed, her eyes widening. "You need to see this."

"I'm not coming up there," Maisie protested. "Just tell me what you see."

"They're literally mixing the corn syrup with what looks like maple syrup," Lucy reported, watching the workers inside combine liquids from different containers. "There's a huge vat where they're blending them together, and—wait, there's something else..."

In the corner of the room, partially obscured by equipment, sat a stack of distinctive wooden crates. Each bore a branded stamp that Lucy recognized immediately.

"McBride's crates," she whispered. "They still have stock from Otis's farm."

"How can you tell?" Maisie asked.

"The brand mark—it's Otis's maple leaf design. And they're..." Lucy squinted through the dirty window. "They're emptying bottles from those crates and adding the contents to the mixture."

"Using the last of Otis's real syrup to flavor their counterfeit blend," Maisie realized. "That's why they're not panicking about losing their supplier yet—they're stretching what they have left."

"We need to document this," Lucy said, pulling out her phone. "The sheriff will need⁠—"

A sharp voice cut through the morning air. "Hey! What are you doing there?"

Lucy nearly fell off her perch as she turned to see a security guard approaching rapidly from around the corner of the building. Their observation platform suddenly felt very conspicuous.

"Time to go," she whispered, quickly snapping several photos before scrambling down from the pallets.

Maisie was already backing away. "I told you this was a bad idea!"

"Stop right there!" the guard shouted, breaking into a run.

They didn't.

Lucy and Maisie bolted for the fence, squeezing through the gap they'd discovered earlier and sprinting toward the parking lot where they'd left Maisie's car.

"This is so illegal!" Maisie gasped as they ran.

"Only if we get caught!" Lucy called back.

They reached the car just as the security guard appeared at the fence line, talking urgently into his radio. Lucy fumbled with her seatbelt as Maisie started the engine and peeled out of their hiding spot, tires squealing on the damp pavement.

"Did he see the license plate?" Lucy asked, twisting to look behind them.

"I don't know," Maisie replied, her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. "But I'm pretty sure breaking into a business and spying on them is frowned upon in most legal circles."

"We didn't break anything," Lucy pointed out. "And we got evidence of the syrup fraud. Look." She held up her phone, showing the photos she'd managed to take—blurry but clearly depicting workers combining different syrups, with the McBride crates visible in the background.

"Great. Evidence we obtained illegally," Maisie groaned. "Sheriff Pritchard is going to kill us."

"Not if we—" Lucy began, but was interrupted by her phone ringing. She glanced at the screen and winced. "Speak of the devil."

"Don't answer it," Maisie pleaded.

"If I don't, he'll just track us down." Lucy took a deep breath and accepted the call. "Good morning, Sheriff!"

"Lucy Blackstone," Hank's voice carried that special tone of exasperation he seemed to reserve exclusively for her. "Would you care to explain why I just received a call from Calloway Pantry Products about trespassers taking photographs through their windows? Trespassers who match your and Maisie Carter's descriptions?"

"That was fast," Lucy murmured. "They must have recognized us from yesterday."

"I'm waiting for that explanation," Hank prompted.

"We were... gathering evidence?" Lucy offered weakly.

"After I explicitly told you to stop investigating," Hank said, his voice dangerously calm. "After I explained how your amateur sleuthing could compromise a murder investigation."

"But Sheriff, we saw them mixing corn syrup with maple syrup! They're continuing the fraud even after Otis's death. They had McBride-branded crates that they're emptying to flavor their counterfeit blend."

A long silence followed this revelation.

"Where are you now?" Hank finally asked.

"Driving back to Brentwood Falls," Lucy replied. "About ten minutes out."

"Come directly to the station. Do not stop anywhere else. Do not talk to anyone else. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sheriff."

"And Lucy? This is your last warning. Next time, there will be consequences."

The call ended abruptly, leaving Lucy staring at her phone.

"How bad is it?" Maisie asked, eyes fixed on the road.

"He wants us to come directly to the station."

"Are we getting arrested?"

"Probably just another lecture," Lucy said, though she wasn't entirely convinced. She looked down at her phone, reviewing the photos she'd taken. Despite their blurriness, they clearly showed the mixing operation and the McBride crates. "It was worth it, though. This is proof of what Otis discovered."

"Proof we can't actually use in court," Maisie pointed out.

"Maybe not directly," Lucy acknowledged. "But it confirms what's in Otis's ledger. And it gives Sheriff Pritchard cause to get a proper warrant."

When they arrived at the sheriff's station twenty minutes later, Deputy Otis McBride was waiting for them at the entrance, looking uncomfortable with his assignment.

"Sheriff wants to see you right away," he said, escorting them to Hank's office.

The sheriff was on the phone when they entered, his expression grim. He gestured for them to sit while he finished his conversation.

"Yes, I understand. We'll send a unit right away. Keep everyone back from the building." He hung up and fixed Lucy and Maisie with a stern look. "Before we discuss your morning activities, there's something you need to know. There's been a fire at Otis McBride's sugar shack."

Lucy gasped. "A fire? When?"

"Started about twenty minutes ago," Hank replied. "Ellie called it in. She was over there collecting some personal items when she noticed smoke coming from the roof."

"Is she okay?" Maisie asked, concerned.

"Shaken but unharmed. She got out in time." Hank leaned forward, his expression deadly serious. "The fire department is calling it suspicious. The blaze started in multiple locations simultaneously."

"Arson," Lucy breathed. "Someone's destroying evidence."

"That's my thinking as well," Hank agreed. "Which brings us back to your escapade this morning. Do you realize what you've done?"

"We've uncovered evidence of ongoing fraud," Lucy defended.

"You've tipped off our prime suspect," Hank corrected. "Whatever evidence might have been preserved in that sugar shack is now up in flames, likely because Amos Calloway realized we're closing in on him."

The full implications hit Lucy like a truck. "You think our visit to Calloway's warehouse triggered the fire?"

"The timing is hardly coincidental," Hank pointed out. "You were spotted at 6:15 AM. The fire was called in at 6:42 AM. That's just enough time for someone to make a phone call and for an accomplice to reach Otis's property."

Lucy felt sick. "We never meant to⁠—"

"I know you didn't," Hank interrupted, his tone softening slightly. "You thought you were helping. But this is exactly why civilian interference in criminal investigations is dangerous. Professionals know when to move and when to wait, when to reveal their hand and when to keep it hidden."

"I'm sorry," Lucy said quietly. "Truly."

Hank sighed, running a hand through his hair. "What's done is done. Now we need to work with what we have." He held out his hand. "Show me these photos you took."

Lucy handed over her phone, and Hank scrolled through the images with a professional eye.

"Blurry, but usable," he assessed. "Combined with Otis's ledger and what's left of his letter, we might have enough for a warrant." He looked up at them. "I'm going to need formal statements from both of you about what you witnessed this morning."

"Of course," Lucy agreed readily. "Anything to help."

"And after that," Hank continued, fixing them with a pointed stare, "you are going to promise me—really promise me this time—that you will stop investigating this case."

"But—" Lucy began.

"No buts," Hank cut her off. "The stakes just got higher. Whoever is behind this has escalated from fraud to murder to arson. I won't have civilians putting themselves in the line of fire."

Lucy exchanged a glance with Maisie, who nodded subtly. "We promise," Lucy said solemnly. "No more investigating."

"Good," Hank seemed satisfied with her sincerity. "Now, there is one thing you can help with, legitimately. The fire has displaced Ellie. She's pretty shaken up and shouldn't be alone right now. Could one of you stay with her until we know it's safe?"

"Of course," Lucy said without hesitation. "She can stay at my place. I have a spare room."

"Thank you," Hank nodded. "Deputy McBride will take your statements, and then you can pick her up from the fire station. She's helping identify what was lost in the blaze."

As they followed Deputy McBride to the interview room, Maisie leaned close to Lucy. "You actually meant that promise this time, right?"

"Absolutely," Lucy assured her. "We're officially stepping back."

Maisie studied her friend's face. "Why don't I believe you?"

"Because you know me too well," Lucy admitted with a small smile. "But I really do mean it. No more active investigating. Sheriff Pritchard is right—we're out of our depth here."

After giving their statements, they drove to the fire station where they found Ellie McBride sitting on a bench outside, her face streaked with soot and her eyes red from crying.

"Ellie," Lucy called gently as they approached. "I'm so sorry about the sugar shack."

Ellie looked up, anger flashing through her grief. "It's gone. Everything's gone. All of Uncle Otis's equipment, his records... everything." Her voice broke. "Who would do this?"

"The same person who killed your uncle," Lucy said softly, sitting beside her. "Someone who's desperate to cover their tracks."

"Sheriff Pritchard said you can stay with me for a few days," Lucy continued. "Just until we're sure it's safe."

"Thank you," Ellie nodded, too exhausted to argue. "I didn't want to go back to the farmhouse anyway. Not right now."

"Can you tell us what happened?" Maisie asked gently.

Ellie took a shuddering breath. "I went over this morning to collect some personal items from the sugar shack—photographs Uncle Otis kept on his desk, some awards. I was only in there for a few minutes when I smelled smoke. At first, I thought it was just lingering from the evaporator, but then I saw flames coming from behind the barrel storage. I ran outside to call 911, and by the time the fire department arrived, the whole back wall was engulfed."

"The fire chief said it started in multiple places?" Lucy prompted.

"Three separate points of origin," Ellie confirmed. "They found empty accelerant containers outside." Her voice hardened. "Someone wanted to make sure nothing survived."

"Did you notice anything missing before the fire started?" Lucy asked. "Anything different from yesterday?"

Ellie frowned, thinking. "The barrels... some of them were moved. The stack where you found the ledger had been rearranged. I noticed because I was looking for any other hiding spots Uncle Otis might have used."

"Someone was searching for something," Lucy murmured. "Probably more evidence."

"The camera," Maisie suggested. "The one Otis installed to catch the tampering."

"If they didn't find it yesterday when they burned the letter, they might have come back looking for it," Lucy agreed. "Then when they heard about our visit to Calloway's warehouse..."

"They decided to destroy everything," Ellie finished grimly. "Make sure no evidence survived."

A firefighter approached them, helmet in hand. "Ms. McBride? We've contained the blaze, but I'm afraid there's not much left to salvage. The structure's a total loss."

"Thank you for trying," Ellie said quietly.

"We did find something unusual," the firefighter continued. "A metal box, melted but intact, buried under the floorboards. Sheriff Pritchard has it now."

Lucy and Maisie exchanged surprised looks.

"A hidden metal box?" Lucy repeated. "Did Otis ever mention anything like that to you, Ellie?"

"No," Ellie shook her head. "But Uncle Otis was cautious by nature. Always had backup plans."

The firefighter excused himself to return to the cleanup efforts, leaving the three women contemplating this new development.

"I wonder what's in the box," Maisie said.

"More evidence, probably," Lucy suggested. "Maybe even the missing camera or its memory card."

"If it survived the fire, it could be the proof Sheriff Pritchard needs," Ellie said, a spark of hope in her voice.

"Let's get you to my place," Lucy said, helping Ellie to her feet. "You need rest, and I'm sure the sheriff will update us when he knows more."

As they walked toward the car, Lucy's phone chimed with a text message. She checked it discreetly, finding a message from Dot:

"Just heard about the fire. Marnie's beside herself. Also, you need to know—Gus Wheeler didn't show up for work at Silas's farm today. Silas is telling everyone Gus quit without notice last night."

Lucy frowned at this new information. The timing was suspicious to say the least. Had Gus Wheeler set the fire? Was he working for Amos Calloway all along? Or had something happened to him?

She forwarded the message to Sheriff Pritchard with a brief note: "FYI from Dot. Keeping my promise—just passing along information, not investigating."

His reply came quickly: "Noted. Already on it. STAY PUT."

As they drove away from the fire station, Lucy couldn't help looking back at the plume of black smoke still rising from what had been Otis McBride's pride and joy for over forty years. Someone had escalated from fraud to murder to arson within days. The desperation behind such actions suggested they were closing in on the truth.

The question now was whether Sheriff Pritchard could gather enough evidence to make an arrest before the culprit struck again—and who might be the next target if he couldn't.

Looking at Ellie's devastated profile in the rearview mirror, Lucy silently renewed her determination to see justice done for Otis McBride. She might have promised to stop investigating, but that didn't mean she couldn't still help in other ways.

After all, she reasoned, offering sanctuary to a potential witness wasn't investigating. It was just being a good citizen.

And if that witness happened to share important information while staying under her roof? Well, that would just be coincidence.

6

Three days after the fire that destroyed Otis McBride's sugar shack, the Brentwood Falls town council convened an emergency meeting to discuss the fate of the postponed Maple Festival. Lucy sat in the back row of the town hall, watching as Mayor Thompson attempted to maintain order among increasingly anxious council members and festival vendors.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please," the mayor called over the din. "One at a time!"

Beside Lucy, Maisie leaned over to whisper, "Ten bucks says someone throws a maple-themed tantrum in the next five minutes."

"I'm not taking that bet," Lucy whispered back. "Marnie Higgins looks ready to explode."

Indeed, Marnie was sitting ramrod straight in the front row, her hand raised persistently while the mayor pretended not to see her.

"The question before us," Mayor Thompson continued, "is whether to proceed with a scaled-down version of the festival next weekend or postpone until next year. Chief Andrews has confirmed that the investigation into Otis McBride's death and the subsequent fire at his property remains ongoing."

From the council table, Councilwoman Pratt spoke up. "With all due respect, Mayor, we're talking about the economic lifeblood of our spring season. Canceling the festival would impact dozens of local businesses who've already purchased inventory and prepared for the event."

"No one's suggesting cancellation," the mayor clarified. "Just postponement until⁠—"

"Until what?" Marnie Higgins finally burst out, abandoning protocol. "Until Sheriff Pritchard solves the case? That could be months! Meanwhile, we've all got product that needs selling. Maple syrup doesn't improve with age like wine, you know."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered vendors.

"Mrs. Higgins, please wait to be recognized before speaking," the mayor admonished.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Marnie huffed. "We all know Otis was murdered. It's tragic and terrible, and none of us will ever forget him. But he of all people would want the festival to continue. It was his favorite event of the year!"

This declaration was met with more emphatic agreement from the audience.

"There's also the matter of safety," Sheriff Pritchard spoke up from his position near the side wall. "Until we apprehend Otis's killer, there's a potential risk to public safety, particularly for other maple producers."

A tense silence fell over the room as this sobering statement sank in.

"Are you saying we could be in danger too?" a syrup producer from the neighboring county asked nervously.

"We have no specific threats," Hank clarified, "but prudence suggests caution until we understand the full motive behind Otis's death."

From her seat, Lucy observed the growing fear and uncertainty in the room. The festival vendors had already lost several days of anticipated sales, and now faced the prospect of a canceled event entirely. For small producers who relied on festival revenue to sustain their operations, this was more than an inconvenience—it was potentially devastating.

"What if," Lucy found herself standing before she'd fully formed her thought, "we reframed the festival as a memorial to Otis? We could add safety measures, have producers work in pairs, implement a buddy system..."

All eyes turned to her, and Lucy realized belatedly that she'd broken the same protocol she'd just watched Marnie violate.

"Sorry," she added quickly. "I should have waited to be recognized."

Mayor Thompson, however, seemed relieved by the constructive suggestion. "No, that's quite all right, Ms. Blackstone. Please continue."

Lucy gathered her thoughts. "Otis was the heart of the Maple Festival for decades. Turning this year's event into a tribute to him would honor his memory while allowing the economic activity to proceed. We could donate a portion of proceeds to a memorial fund in his name."

"I like it," Councilman Rivera nodded. "It addresses both the emotional and practical concerns."

"But what about safety?" someone called out.

Sheriff Pritchard stepped forward. "If the council decides to proceed with the festival, my department will coordinate enhanced security measures. We can establish protocols for vendors, conduct regular patrols, and ensure no one works alone in isolated areas."

"This could actually work in our favor investigatively," he added after a moment. "Whoever killed Otis might be more likely to reveal themselves in the festival environment, especially if they believe we're close to solving the case."

"Are you saying you want to use us as bait?" Marnie asked bluntly.

"Not at all," Hank assured her. "But criminals often make mistakes when under pressure. If our perpetrator has business connections to the festival, they may feel compelled to attend to maintain appearances."

The meeting continued for another hour, with details being hammered out and safety protocols established. By the end, the council had voted unanimously to proceed with the "Otis McBride Memorial Maple Festival" the following weekend, complete with enhanced security and a special tribute ceremony.

As the meeting dispersed, Lucy and Maisie made their way toward Hank, who was collecting his notes from the presentation.

"That was a good suggestion," he acknowledged as they approached. "The memorial angle gives everyone a way to move forward without seeming insensitive."

"Any progress on the case?" Lucy asked hopefully.

Hank gave her a measured look. "You know I can't discuss details of an active investigation."

"Of course," Lucy nodded, then added casually, "Just wondering if you'd located Gus Wheeler yet."

"Lucy," Hank's warning tone returned.

"What? It's a simple question. The whole town knows he disappeared right after the fire."

Hank sighed. "We're following several leads. That's all I can say for now."

"And the metal box from under the floorboards?" Lucy pressed. "Did it contain anything useful?"

"You promised to stop investigating," Hank reminded her.

"I'm not investigating," Lucy protested. "I'm conversing. There's a difference."

"Mmm-hmm." Hank clearly didn't believe her. "Why don't you focus on helping Ellie? How's she holding up?"

"As well as can be expected," Lucy replied, accepting the change of subject. "She's still staying with me. Doesn't feel safe returning to Otis's farmhouse alone."

"Smart," Hank nodded. "Keep an eye on her. She's a potential witness, even if she doesn't realize it."

This caught Lucy's attention. "Witness to what?"

Hank's expression revealed he'd said more than intended. "Just keep her close," he repeated. "And if she remembers anything unusual about the days leading up to Otis's death, call me immediately."

With that, he excused himself to speak with Mayor Thompson, leaving Lucy and Maisie to exchange meaningful glances.

"He knows something he's not telling us," Maisie murmured.

"Clearly," Lucy agreed. "And it involves Ellie somehow."

As they left the town hall, they spotted Silas Boone deep in conversation with a woman Lucy didn't recognize. The woman appeared agitated, gesturing emphatically while Silas nodded with uncharacteristic patience.

"Who's that with Silas?" Lucy wondered aloud.

"Clara Boone, his wife," Maisie supplied. "She rarely comes into town. Prefers to let Silas handle the business side of things while she manages their books from home."

Lucy studied the woman with interest. Clara Boone was petite but carried herself with authority, her stylish appearance contrasting with Silas's perpetually rumpled look.

"She's the one who provided his alibi for the afternoon Otis died," Lucy recalled. "Said he was home the whole time."

"Convenient," Maisie commented.

"Maybe too convenient," Lucy mused, watching as Clara handed Silas what appeared to be a ledger similar to Otis's. "I wonder what they're discussing."

"Don't even think about it," Maisie warned, recognizing the gleam in Lucy's eye. "You promised Sheriff Pritchard."

"I'm just observing," Lucy defended herself. "Besides, look who else just arrived."

A sleek black SUV had pulled up in front of the town hall, and from it emerged Amos Calloway, looking every bit the successful businessman in his tailored suit. He nodded to several council members as he made his way inside, apparently for a meeting that was scheduled after the public session.

"What's he doing here?" Maisie wondered.

"Probably trying to smooth things over after our little visit to his warehouse," Lucy guessed. "Making sure his company still has a booth at the festival."

"Even after being connected to a fraud that got Otis killed? That's bold."

"Without definitive proof, it's his word against a dead man's," Lucy pointed out. "And Amos Calloway has a lot of influence in local commerce."

They watched as Amos greeted Mayor Thompson with a practiced smile and firm handshake before disappearing into the building.

"We should go," Maisie said. "I need to get back to work, and you promised to help Dot with the library's festival display, remember?"

"Right," Lucy nodded, reluctantly turning away. "The Maple-themed book selection won't organize itself."

As they walked toward their cars, Lucy's phone chimed with a notification. It was a message from Ellie:

"Found something interesting in Uncle Otis's mail. An order confirmation for 500 bottles of premium syrup, placed anonymously through his website two days before he died. Paid in full up front. Weird, right?"

Lucy's investigative instincts immediately perked up. An anonymous bulk order right before Otis's death? That couldn't be coincidental.

"I need to cancel with Dot," Lucy decided, showing Maisie the message.

"Or you could just tell Ellie to give the information to Sheriff Pritchard," Maisie suggested reasonably.

"Of course I will," Lucy assured her. "After I take a look at it myself."

Maisie rolled her eyes. "Your definition of 'not investigating' is very creative."

"I prefer to think of it as 'information gathering,'" Lucy grinned. "Besides, I'm just helping Ellie sort through Otis's business affairs. Totally innocent."

"Uh-huh," Maisie was unconvinced. "Just be careful. If Hank catches you meddling again..."

"I'll be the soul of discretion," Lucy promised, already typing a reply to Ellie. "See you tomorrow at the library planning meeting?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Maisie agreed. "And Lucy? I mean it about being careful. Whoever killed Otis and burned down his sugar shack isn't playing around."

Lucy's expression sobered. "I know. I'll stick to looking at paperwork with Ellie. Nothing risky."

"Where have I heard that before?" Maisie muttered as they parted ways.

Back at Lucy's cottage, Ellie was waiting with a folder of printouts spread across the kitchen table.

"Look at this," she said without preamble as Lucy entered. "Someone ordered 500 bottles of Uncle Otis's premium reserve—that's nearly $15,000 worth of syrup—and paid for it upfront through an anonymous wire transfer."

Lucy examined the order form. Indeed, the customer information section was conspicuously blank except for a shipping address: a post office box in Millfield.

"Is this normal?" Lucy asked. "Anonymous bulk orders?"

"Not at all," Ellie shook her head. "Uncle Otis knew all his bulk customers personally. He prided himself on those relationships."

"And the timing is suspicious," Lucy noted. "Two days before his death. Almost like someone was trying to secure a large quantity of his syrup before it became unavailable."

"Exactly what I was thinking," Ellie agreed. "But who would know that Uncle Otis was about to die?"

"The killer," Lucy said grimly. "This could be evidence of premeditation."

Ellie paled. "We should call Sheriff Pritchard."

"Absolutely," Lucy nodded. "But first, let's see if we can trace this order a bit more. Did Otis keep records of his wire transfers?"

"He had a separate ledger for financial transactions," Ellie confirmed. "It should be in the box of files I brought from his office."

They spent the next hour combing through Otis's financial records, finding the corresponding wire transfer from an offshore account that offered no clear path to the sender's identity.

"A dead end," Lucy sighed in frustration. "Whoever placed this order knew how to cover their tracks."

"Wait," Ellie held up a sticky note found attached to the transfer confirmation. "Uncle Otis wrote something here: 'Check with C.B. re: order verification.'"

"C.B.?" Lucy repeated. "Who's that?"

"I'm not sure," Ellie frowned. "Could be a business contact or..."

"Clara Boone," Lucy realized suddenly. "Silas's wife. She handles their financial affairs, according to Maisie."

"Why would Uncle Otis contact Silas's wife about an anonymous order?" Ellie wondered.

"Good question," Lucy mused. "Maybe we should ask her directly."

"Is that wise?" Ellie hesitated. "Sheriff Pritchard was pretty clear about leaving the investigation to him."

Lucy carefully considered her next words. She'd promised not to actively investigate, but this information had fallen into her lap through Ellie. Surely following an obvious lead wasn't breaking her promise...too badly.

"Let's call it a courtesy visit," Lucy suggested. "We're just informing Clara about the memorial festival and asking if she has any insights about Otis's business practices. Completely innocent."

Ellie looked skeptical but didn't argue. "If you think it might help find Uncle Otis's killer..."

"It might," Lucy nodded decisively. "At the very least, it's a lead worth exploring before we turn everything over to Sheriff Pritchard."

They gathered the relevant documents and set out for the Boone residence, a sprawling farmhouse set back from the road on the eastern edge of town. Unlike Otis's traditional setup, the Boones had modernized their maple operation with vacuum lines and a state-of-the-art evaporator house that looked more like a small factory.

As they approached the main house, Lucy noticed a familiar pickup truck parked around the side—a battered blue Ford that she recognized from their earlier encounter at Otis's sugar shack.

"That's Gus Wheeler's truck," she whispered to Ellie. "The one who's supposedly disappeared."

Ellie's eyes widened. "What's he doing here?"

"I don't know," Lucy admitted. "But it just got more interesting."

They parked beside a sleek sedan that presumably belonged to Clara Boone and approached the front door. Lucy knocked firmly, rehearsing her casual explanation for their visit.

The door swung open to reveal Clara Boone herself, impeccably dressed even for a day at home. Her welcoming expression faltered when she recognized Lucy.

"Ms. Blackstone," she said coolly. "This is unexpected."

"Mrs. Boone," Lucy smiled warmly, as if unaware of the chilly reception. "This is Ellie McBride, Otis's niece. We're visiting neighbors to discuss the memorial festival planned for next weekend. Do you have a moment?"

Clara hesitated, then reluctantly stepped back to allow them entry. "I suppose so. Silas isn't home, if you were looking for him."

"Actually, we were hoping to speak with you," Lucy clarified as they followed Clara into a tastefully decorated living room. "As Otis's niece, Ellie is going through his business affairs and had a question about a recent transaction."

Clara's expression remained neutral, but Lucy noticed her hands clasping together tightly. "I'm not sure how I could help with Otis's business matters. Silas and I run a separate operation."

"Of course," Lucy nodded. "But we found a note where Otis mentioned checking with 'C.B.' about an order verification. We thought he might have meant you."

"I can't imagine why," Clara said stiffly. "Otis and I rarely spoke directly."

Before Lucy could press further, a door at the back of the house opened and closed, followed by heavy footsteps. Clara rose quickly, moving to intercept whoever was approaching, but she was too late.

Gus Wheeler appeared in the doorway, stopping short when he spotted Lucy and Ellie. His face drained of color.

"Sorry, Mrs. Boone," he stammered. "Didn't know you had company."

"Mr. Wheeler," Lucy greeted him with false surprise. "What a coincidence. The whole town's been wondering where you disappeared to after the fire at Otis's sugar shack."

Gus looked helplessly at Clara, who sighed in resignation.

"Gus has been staying in our guest cottage," she explained. "He's been... helping with some special projects."

"Special projects," Lucy repeated skeptically. "And does Sheriff Pritchard know you've been harboring a person of interest in a murder investigation?"

"I didn't kill Otis!" Gus protested, his voice cracking. "I would never!"

"But you did tamper with his syrup barrels," Lucy pressed. "He caught you and fired you. Then mysteriously, the tampering continued."

Gus's shoulders slumped. He looked to Clara again, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

"You might as well tell them," she said quietly. "It's going to come out anyway."

Gus sank into an armchair, suddenly looking exhausted. "Yeah, I switched out some of Otis's barrels. Replaced pure syrup with pre-mixed stuff. But I didn't know it was for anything illegal, I swear! I was told it was a cost-saving measure for commercial buyers who didn't need premium grade."

"Who told you that?" Lucy asked, though she suspected she knew the answer.

"Mr. Calloway," Gus admitted. "He said Otis had agreed to supply a lower-cost blend for gift baskets but didn't want his name officially associated with it. Said it was all above board, just... discreet."

"And you believed that?" Ellie asked incredulously.

Gus had the decency to look ashamed. "He paid me extra. A lot extra. I've got student loans, and my mom's medical bills..."

"So you helped dilute Otis's premium syrup," Lucy summarized. "But then he caught you and fired you."

"Yeah," Gus nodded. "I panicked and told Mr. Calloway. He said not to worry about it, that he'd handle Otis."

A chill ran down Lucy's spine. "What exactly did he say?"

"That he'd 'make Otis see reason,'" Gus recalled. "That there was too much money at stake for one old-fashioned syrup maker to ruin things."

"And then Otis turned up dead," Lucy stated flatly.

"I had nothing to do with that!" Gus insisted, his eyes wide with fear. "When I heard what happened, I freaked out. Called Mr. Calloway, and he told me to lay low, that things would blow over. Then when the sugar shack burned down..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"You thought you might be next," Lucy finished for him.

"I needed somewhere safe to hide," Gus confirmed. "Mrs. Boone offered to let me stay in their guest cottage until things settled down."

Lucy turned to Clara, who had been watching the exchange with resignation. "Why would you help him? What's your connection to all this?"

Clara hesitated, then squared her shoulders. "I used to work for Calloway Pantry Products. In their accounting department. I know how they operate, the corners they cut. When Gus came to us terrified, I convinced Silas we needed to help him."

"As an alibi for Silas," Lucy guessed. "If Gus testifies that Silas was home during Otis's murder, it clears him of suspicion."

"Silas had nothing to do with Otis's death," Clara said firmly. "Yes, they were competitors, and yes, they argued. But Silas would never resort to murder. He was home with me that entire afternoon, just as I told Sheriff Pritchard."

Lucy studied Clara's face, trying to detect any sign of deception. The woman appeared genuinely convinced of her husband's innocence.

"What about the anonymous order for 500 bottles of premium syrup?" Ellie asked. "Placed right before Uncle Otis died?"

Clara's expression registered genuine surprise. "I don't know anything about that."

"The note said to check with C.B.," Lucy reminded her. "That's not you?"

"No," Clara shook her head. "Though it could be..." She stopped abruptly.

"Could be who?" Lucy pressed.

"Calloway Brands," Gus supplied when Clara remained silent. "That's what they call their premium gift basket line."

The pieces suddenly aligned in Lucy's mind. "Amos Calloway placed the order anonymously, betting that Otis wouldn't be around to fulfill it. Then he could claim he'd paid for product that was never delivered, perhaps even sue Otis's estate for breach of contract."

"Or," Ellie suggested, "he wanted to secure a large supply of authentic McBride syrup to continue diluting after Otis was gone. To stretch his supply until he could find another source."

"Either way," Lucy concluded, "it connects Amos directly to premeditation. He knew Otis would be dead before that order could be filled."

Clara looked genuinely distressed. "Amos is ruthless in business, but murder? Are you sure?"

"Otis discovered the syrup fraud and was planning to expose it at the festival," Lucy explained. "That would have destroyed Calloway's reputation and potentially led to criminal charges. Millions of dollars were at stake."

"We need to call Sheriff Pritchard," Ellie decided. "Gus needs to tell him everything."

Gus paled. "He'll arrest me for tampering with the syrup."

"Probably," Lucy acknowledged. "But tampering is a lot better than being an accessory to murder. If you cooperate fully, tell everything you know about Calloway's operation..."

"I'll testify," Gus nodded slowly. "I never wanted anyone to get hurt. Especially not Otis. He was a good boss until I messed everything up."

As Ellie called Sheriff Pritchard, Lucy pondered the remaining puzzle pieces. They now had evidence connecting Amos Calloway to the syrup fraud and potentially to premeditation for Otis's murder. But there was still one crucial question unanswered: who had actually administered the poison that killed Otis?

Gus had been fired weeks before and seemed genuinely shocked by Otis's death. Silas had an alibi from his wife. Clara herself had no clear motive. That left Amos Calloway or an as-yet-unknown accomplice.

"Sheriff Pritchard is on his way," Ellie reported, ending her call. "He sounded... not entirely surprised."

"He's been building the case all along," Lucy realized. "That's why he warned us to stay out of it. He didn't want us tipping off Calloway before he had enough evidence."

"And then we went and snooped around his warehouse anyway," Ellie sighed.

"Which might have accelerated his timeline," Lucy acknowledged. "But it also led us to Gus, who can now testify about the syrup tampering operation."

Ten minutes later, Sheriff Pritchard arrived with Deputy McBride. His expression when he saw Lucy was a mixture of exasperation and resignation.

"Why am I not surprised to find you in the middle of this?" he asked rhetorically. "I thought we had an understanding about you staying out of the investigation."

"Technically," Lucy defended herself, "we were just following up on a business matter for Ellie. The discovery of Gus hiding here was completely coincidental."

"Mmm-hmm," Hank clearly didn't believe her. He turned to Gus. "Mr. Wheeler, I think you and I need to have a long conversation downtown."

As Gus was escorted to the patrol car, Hank pulled Lucy aside. "This isn't over, you know. Finding Gus is helpful, but we still don't have concrete proof that Amos Calloway administered the poison."

"But the anonymous order—" Lucy began.

"Is circumstantial," Hank finished for her. "Suggestive, but not conclusive. We need something that puts Calloway at the sugar shack with the poison."

"What about the metal box from under the floorboards?" Lucy asked. "Did it contain anything useful?"

Hank hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. "It contained vials of syrup samples—evidence Otis was collecting about the tampering. And something else: a small USB drive."

Lucy's eyes widened. "The security camera footage?"

"Possibly," Hank nodded. "Our tech team is working on it now. If it shows Calloway or one of his associates tampering with Otis's testing equipment..."

"You'd have your murder weapon," Lucy finished excitedly.

"Potentially," Hank cautioned. "But until we know for sure, this stays between us. Understand?"

Lucy nodded solemnly. "Completely."

As they prepared to leave, Lucy couldn't help feeling they were on the verge of solving Otis McBride's murder. But a nagging doubt remained—what if the USB drive didn't contain the evidence they needed? What if Amos Calloway had been careful enough to use an intermediary for the actual poisoning?

The revived Maple Festival was just days away, and whoever had killed Otis might be growing desperate as the investigation closed in. Lucy could only hope that Sheriff Pritchard would find the final piece of evidence before anyone else got hurt in the sticky web of deceit surrounding Brentwood Falls' beloved maple syrup tradition.

7

The revived Maple Festival was scheduled to begin the following morning, but Lucy's mind was far from the festive decorations she was helping arrange in the town square. Her thoughts kept circling back to the missing piece of evidence they needed to connect Amos Calloway directly to Otis's murder.

"You're hanging those maple leaf streamers upside down," Maisie commented, interrupting Lucy's contemplation.

"What? Oh." Lucy repositioned the decoration. "Sorry. Distracted."

"Thinking about the case?" Maisie asked, handing her another streamer.

"Hank says they're still analyzing the USB drive from Otis's hidden box," Lucy replied quietly. "But he's not confident it will provide definitive evidence against Calloway."

"Even with Gus Wheeler's testimony about the syrup tampering?"

"That connects Calloway to the fraud, but not necessarily to the murder," Lucy explained. "Calloway could claim he had no knowledge of the cyanide poisoning, that it was all Gus acting alone."

"But Gus has an alibi for when Otis died," Maisie pointed out. "He was in Millfield at a doctor's appointment. There are records."

"Exactly. So we have fraud but no murderer, or at least not enough evidence to arrest one." Lucy secured the last streamer and stepped back to assess their work. "We need something more concrete."

As they continued decorating, Lucy spotted Ellie across the square, setting up the McBride's Maple booth with Marnie Higgins's help. In the wake of Otis's death and the destruction of his sugar shack, Ellie had decided to honor her uncle by maintaining a presence at the festival, selling the last of his bottled inventory that had been stored in the farmhouse.

"How many bottles of Otis's syrup does Ellie have left?" Lucy asked suddenly.

"Not many," Maisie replied. "Maybe two dozen? She mentioned it was just what was in the house pantry. Everything else was either shipped already or destroyed in the fire."

Lucy's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "So the last authentic McBride syrup in existence."

"I guess so," Maisie nodded. "Until next season, assuming Ellie decides to continue the business."

"Which makes those remaining bottles incredibly valuable," Lucy mused, a plan beginning to form in her mind.

Maisie recognized the expression on her friend's face immediately. "Oh no. I know that look. That's your 'I'm about to do something Sheriff Pritchard would definitely disapprove of' look."

"Not at all," Lucy protested innocently. "I'm having a completely legitimate thought about a charity auction."

"A charity auction," Maisie repeated skeptically.

"For Otis's memorial fund," Lucy explained, warming to her idea. "We auction off the last available bottles of authentic McBride syrup. All proceeds go to a scholarship in his name for students studying traditional food crafts."

"That actually sounds reasonable," Maisie admitted. "So what's the catch?"

Lucy leaned closer. "We announce it's Otis's final batch—the very last syrup he produced before his death. The batch he was working on when he died."

Maisie's eyes widened as she caught on. "But that batch was contaminated with cyanide. It's what killed him."

"Exactly," Lucy nodded. "Only we know that. And possibly Amos Calloway, if he was responsible for the poisoning."

"You're setting a trap," Maisie realized. "You think Calloway will try to buy those bottles to prevent anyone from testing them and discovering the cyanide."

"It would be quite damning if the syrup that allegedly killed Otis accidentally through his own error turned out to contain a poison he would never use in his process," Lucy pointed out. "Especially if Calloway shows unusual interest in acquiring and disposing of it."

"This is..." Maisie hesitated, searching for the right word. "Brilliant, actually. But also incredibly risky. Sheriff Pritchard will never agree to it."

"Let me worry about Hank," Lucy said confidently. "First, we need to talk to Ellie about those remaining bottles."

"I don't know, Lucy," Ellie frowned after hearing the plan. "Using Uncle Otis's death like this feels... exploitative."

They were gathered in Lucy's living room—Lucy, Maisie, Ellie, and Marnie, who had insisted on being included once she'd caught wind that something was being planned involving McBride syrup.

"It's not exploitation," Lucy assured her. "It's justice. If Calloway poisoned your uncle, this might be our best chance to prove it."

"But what if he doesn't take the bait?" Ellie worried. "What if we're wrong about him?"

"Then we've simply held a successful charity auction for a good cause," Lucy replied. "There's no downside."

"Except that Sheriff Pritchard might arrest us all for interfering in his investigation," Dot pointed out from her perch on the window seat. She'd been brought into the plan reluctantly, her organizational skills deemed essential for setting up a convincing auction on short notice.

"I actually think Hank will support this," Lucy said with more confidence than she felt. "He wants to solve Otis's murder as much as we do. And the evidence they have so far isn't enough for an arrest."

"I say we do it," Marnie declared firmly. "Otis deserves justice, and if this Calloway fellow is behind it, I want to see him squirm."

After further discussion, Ellie finally agreed, though her reservations were evident in her troubled expression. "We'll need to be careful about how we word the announcement," she cautioned. "We can't explicitly claim it's the batch that killed Uncle Otis. That would be a lie."

"We don't need to lie," Lucy assured her. "We just need to be strategically vague. 'Otis McBride's final production'—technically true, since his last surviving bottles are his final production now."

With Ellie's consent secured, they moved quickly to plan the auction. Dot took charge of creating authentic-looking promotional materials, while Maisie coordinated with festival organizers to secure a prime location for the event.

"The auction should be the culminating event of the festival's opening day," Lucy suggested. "Maximum attendance, maximum pressure on Calloway if he's there."

"And what about Sheriff Pritchard?" Marnie asked. "When do we tell him about this little sting operation?"

Lucy checked her watch. "Right now, actually. I have a meeting with him in twenty minutes to discuss library security for the festival. I'll bring it up then."

"Good luck," Maisie called as Lucy gathered her things to leave. "You're going to need it."

Sheriff Pritchard's reaction to Lucy's proposal was exactly as expected.

"Absolutely not," he stated firmly, leaning back in his office chair. "You want to use evidence in an active murder investigation to set a trap for a suspect? Without official sanction? Have you lost your mind?"

"The bottles aren't actually evidence," Lucy pointed out, maintaining her composure. "They're just regular bottles of syrup from Otis's home pantry. The poisoned batch was destroyed in the fire."

"That's not the point," Hank countered. "You're proposing a civilian sting operation that could potentially alert our prime suspect and jeopardize the entire case."

"Or," Lucy suggested, "it could give you exactly what you need to make an arrest. An opportunity to catch Calloway showing consciousness of guilt."

Hank's expression remained skeptical. "And if Calloway realizes it's a trap?"

"Then the worst that happens is an unsuccessful charity auction," Lucy replied. "But if I'm right, and he believes we have bottles from the contaminated batch, he'll be desperate to prevent anyone from testing them."

"It's reckless," Hank maintained, though Lucy detected a slight wavering in his resolve.

"What does the USB drive show?" she asked, changing tactics. "The one from Otis's hidden box."

Hank sighed heavily. "Inconclusive. There's footage of someone in the sugar shack after hours, but the image is too dark and grainy for a positive ID. Could be Calloway, could be someone else."

"So you don't have enough for an arrest," Lucy concluded.

"Not yet," Hank admitted reluctantly. "But that doesn't mean we should resort to vigilante justice."

"This isn't vigilante justice," Lucy insisted. "It's a controlled opportunity for a suspect to reveal himself. With your supervision and approval."

Hank studied her for a long moment. "You're going to do this with or without my blessing, aren't you?"

"I'd strongly prefer to have your support," Lucy replied diplomatically. "But yes, I believe this is our best shot at justice for Otis."

After another moment of consideration, Hank leaned forward. "If—and this is a big if—I were to consider this plan, I would need complete control over the operation. My deputies positioned strategically, everything coordinated through me, and absolutely no improvisation from you or your friends. Are we clear?"

Lucy nodded eagerly. "Crystal clear. So you'll help?"

"I didn't say that," Hank hedged, though his tone had softened. "Let me think about it. And in the meantime, don't do anything. No announcements, no preparations. Wait for my decision."

"Of course," Lucy agreed, trying not to appear too triumphant. She recognized a tentative yes when she heard one.

As she left the sheriff's station, her phone buzzed with a text from Dot: "Promotional materials ready. Maisie secured auction spot. Festival committee approves scholarship fund. Operation Sticky Trap is go."

Lucy smiled to herself. By this time tomorrow, they might finally have the evidence needed to bring Otis McBride's killer to justice.

The opening day of the Otis McBride Memorial Maple Festival dawned bright and clear. Despite the tragic circumstances that had necessitated the name change, the mood in Brentwood Falls was cautiously festive. Vendors had set up their stalls around the town square, colorful banners proclaimed "Celebrating Maple Traditions Since 1892," and the air was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of maple-infused treats.

Lucy arrived early to help with final preparations for the auction, scheduled for 4 PM that afternoon. The promotional posters Dot had created were prominently displayed throughout the festival grounds:

"ONCE-IN-A-LIFETIME OPPORTUNITY! Otis McBride's Final Production Last Authentic McBride Maple Syrup Charity Auction - All Proceeds Benefit the Otis McBride Memorial Scholarship TODAY - 4 PM - Town Square Gazebo"

By mid-morning, buzz about the auction had spread throughout the festival. Lucy overheard numerous conversations speculating about how high the bidding might go for such a rare commodity.

"People are really excited about the auction," Maisie reported, finding Lucy near the library's booth of maple-themed books. "I've had at least a dozen people ask me for details."

"Any sign of our target?" Lucy asked quietly.

"Not yet," Maisie replied. "But the festival's just getting started. Sheriff Pritchard has deputies positioned throughout the grounds, by the way. Very subtle, but they're there."

"So he's on board," Lucy smiled. "I thought he might be."

"Reluctantly," Maisie clarified. "Dot said he gave her a twenty-minute lecture on proper procedure and civilian responsibilities when she dropped off the auction materials at the station this morning."

Around noon, Lucy spotted a familiar face in the crowd—Amos Calloway, looking every bit the successful businessman in his casual-but-expensive weekend attire. He moved through the festival with practiced charm, greeting various town officials and vendors as if he didn't have a care in the world.

"Our guest of honor has arrived," Lucy murmured to Ellie, who was helping at the library booth.

Ellie tensed visibly. "Do you think he knows about the auction yet?"

"If not, he will soon," Lucy replied. "Those posters are everywhere."

They didn't have to wait long to find out. Within an hour, Amos appeared at the library booth, his smile pleasant but his eyes calculating as he perused the maple-themed cookbook display.

"Ms. Blackstone," he greeted Lucy. "Quite an impressive festival, considering the circumstances."

"Mr. Calloway," Lucy nodded, maintaining a neutral expression. "Brentwood Falls is resilient. We believe Otis would have wanted the celebration to continue."

"Indeed." His gaze drifted to one of the auction posters. "I see you're hosting a special event this afternoon. Otis's final production, it says?"

"Yes," Lucy confirmed, watching his reaction carefully. "The last bottles he produced before his tragic accident. A rare opportunity for collectors and connoisseurs."

Something flickered in Amos's eyes—alarm, perhaps, or calculation. "How interesting. I wasn't aware any of that final batch had survived the fire."

"Just a few bottles," Lucy explained, deliberately vague. "They were stored at the farmhouse, not in the sugar shack."

"I see." Amos's casual demeanor had acquired a subtle edge. "And these bottles—they're from the actual batch he was working on when he died?"

"I couldn't say with absolute certainty," Lucy replied truthfully. "Ellie found them labeled with the most recent production date. Whether they're from his final day or final week, they're definitely his last work."

Amos seemed to consider this information carefully. "Well, what a fortunate discovery for your charity auction. I'd be very interested in acquiring these bottles—perhaps we could bypass the auction entirely? I'd be happy to make a generous donation directly to the scholarship fund."

Exactly as Lucy had predicted. "That's very generous, Mr. Calloway, but I'm afraid we've committed to the auction format. It wouldn't be fair to the other interested parties."

"Of course, of course," Amos nodded, though his smile had tightened almost imperceptibly. "Where are these bottles being stored, if I might ask? Given their rarity and value, I hope they're secure."

"Very secure," Lucy assured him. "Sheriff Pritchard himself is overseeing their safekeeping until the auction."

This news seemed to give Amos pause. "The sheriff is involved personally? That seems like an unusual allocation of law enforcement resources for a charity auction."

"Otis was a beloved figure in our community," Lucy reminded him. "And these bottles represent his legacy. We're taking every precaution."

"Commendable," Amos murmured. "Well, I look forward to the auction. I suspect the bidding will be quite competitive."

As he walked away, Ellie let out a breath she'd been holding. "He's definitely interested. Almost too interested."

"Exactly," Lucy agreed. "And did you notice how he specifically asked if the bottles were from the batch Otis was working on when he died? Why would that matter unless he knew there was something wrong with that particular batch?"

"Consciousness of guilt," Ellie nodded. "Just like you predicted."

"Now we just need to see how far he'll go to get those bottles," Lucy said. "The real test will be at the auction."

By 3:30 PM, a sizeable crowd had gathered around the town square gazebo in anticipation of the auction. The two dozen bottles of McBride's maple syrup had been arranged on a display table, each one gleaming amber in the afternoon sun. Sheriff Pritchard and Deputy McBride stood nearby, maintaining a casual but vigilant presence.

"Quite a turnout," Hank commented as Lucy approached. "Your plan seems to be generating the desired interest."

"Including from our person of interest," Lucy replied quietly. "Calloway already tried to buy the entire lot this morning. Wanted to bypass the auction entirely."

"Did he now?" Hank's expression remained neutral, but his eyes sharpened. "That's promising, but not conclusive. He could simply be an eager collector."

"Who specifically asked if these were from the batch Otis was working on when he died," Lucy added.

This detail earned a raised eyebrow from the sheriff. "More interesting. Still, we need something definitive—an action that can only be explained by guilty knowledge."

"That's what the testing is for," Lucy reminded him, referring to the second phase of their plan.

Hank nodded. "Just follow the script we discussed. No improvisation."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Lucy assured him, earning a skeptical look in return.

Mayor Thompson arrived to officially open the auction, delivering a heartfelt speech about Otis McBride's contributions to the community and the scholarship fund established in his name. As he spoke, Lucy scanned the growing crowd until she spotted Amos Calloway near the back, his attention fixed on the bottles displayed in the gazebo.

The auction began with Councilwoman Pratt serving as auctioneer. The first bottle quickly escalated in price, eventually selling to Marnie Higgins for triple its normal retail value. The second and third bottles followed a similar pattern, with local collectors and maple enthusiasts eagerly participating.

Amos Calloway, however, remained silent, watching the proceedings with an increasingly tense expression.

"He's not bidding," Maisie whispered, appearing at Lucy's side. "That wasn't part of the plan."

"He's waiting," Lucy replied. "Biding his time."

Sure enough, as the auction progressed, Amos began to participate, placing modest bids on several bottles but winning only two. His restraint was surprising given his earlier eagerness to purchase the entire lot.

By the time they reached the final bottle, tension had built in the air—though perhaps only those watching Calloway closely would have noticed it. This was the moment Lucy had been waiting for. She approached the auctioneer and whispered something in her ear.

Councilwoman Pratt nodded and turned to the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, before we auction this final bottle, our own Lucy Blackstone has a special announcement."

Lucy took the microphone, her heart racing despite her outwardly calm demeanor. "Thank you all for your generous support of the Otis McBride Memorial Scholarship. Before we conclude, we have a unique opportunity to experience what made Otis's syrup so special. As many of you know, Otis was a scientific craftsman who meticulously tested each batch. In honor of his commitment to quality, we'll be conducting a quick demonstration using a small sample from this final bottle."

From the corner of her eye, Lucy saw Amos Calloway straighten abruptly, his casual demeanor vanishing entirely.

She continued, "Dr. Reynolds from the agricultural extension office has kindly agreed to perform a basic quality assessment right here, showing us the kind of testing Otis performed on every batch." Lucy gestured to Maisie, who was playing the role of the scientist, complete with white lab coat and protective glasses.

Maisie stepped forward, carrying a small testing kit. "Thank you, Lucy. This is a standard sugar content and purity test, similar to what all professional maple producers use."

As Maisie prepared to open the bottle, Lucy watched Amos Calloway. His face had drained of color, and he was moving forward through the crowd with barely concealed urgency.

"Wait!" he called out, his voice carrying across the square. "I'd like to make an offer for all remaining bottles. Right now."

The crowd murmured in surprise at this interruption.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Calloway," Lucy replied, maintaining her composure. "We're in the middle of a demonstration. Your offer will have to wait until⁠—"

"Ten thousand dollars," Amos announced. "Cash, right now, for the remaining bottles and the cancellation of this... demonstration."

The murmurs grew louder. Ten thousand dollars was far more than the remaining bottles were worth, even at the inflated auction prices.

"That's very generous," Lucy acknowledged, "but I'm afraid the demonstration will proceed. This is about honoring Otis's scientific approach to syrup making."

Panic flashed across Amos's face as Maisie began to unscrew the bottle cap. He pushed forward more aggressively now, earning confused and annoyed looks from other attendees.

"You can't open that!" he insisted, reaching the front of the crowd. "Those bottles shouldn't be tested!"

Sheriff Pritchard stepped forward, positioning himself casually between Amos and the testing table. "Is there a problem, Mr. Calloway?"

"That syrup," Amos lowered his voice, though his agitation remained evident. "It could be... contaminated. From the fire. It's not safe to test."

"The fire?" Lucy repeated innocently. "But these bottles were stored at the farmhouse, not in the sugar shack. They weren't anywhere near the fire."

Amos seemed to realize his mistake. He backpedaled quickly. "I meant from before. There were quality issues with Otis's final batches. That's why I'm willing to pay so much—to prevent anyone from consuming potentially dangerous product."

"How would you know about quality issues in Otis's final batches?" Sheriff Pritchard asked pointedly. "According to our investigation, Otis kept his concerns about tampering quite private."

Trapped, Amos's composure crumbled entirely. His gaze darted between the syrup bottle, now open in Maisie's gloved hands, and the exits from the town square.

"This is absurd," he blustered. "I'm trying to protect public safety, and you're treating me like a criminal."

"No one has accused you of anything, Mr. Calloway," Sheriff Pritchard pointed out mildly. "But your concerns about this particular batch of syrup are interesting, especially given that Otis McBride died from cyanide poisoning found in his final test batch."

The crowd gasped collectively at this revelation, which had not been made public until now.

Amos blanched. "I had nothing to do with that. It was an accident—or that Wheeler boy. He was fired for tampering."

"Yet you seem very concerned about these bottles being tested," Hank continued. "Almost as if you know something specific about their contents."

"This is a setup," Amos realized, his expression hardening. "You're trying to frame me."

"Actually," Lucy interjected, "these bottles aren't from Otis's final batch at all. They're from production three months ago. Completely unrelated to the contaminated syrup that killed him."

Amos froze, the implications of his reaction dawning on him too late.

"Amos Calloway," Sheriff Pritchard said formally, "I'd like you to accompany me to the station for questioning regarding the death of Otis McBride."

"I want my lawyer," Amos managed, his businessman's veneer completely shattered.

"Of course," Hank nodded. "You can call them from the station."

As Deputy McBride escorted a shell-shocked Amos Calloway through the stunned crowd, Lucy caught Sheriff Pritchard's eye. His expression conveyed both grudging approval and exasperation—a combination she was growing quite familiar with.

The trap had worked exactly as planned. Amos Calloway had revealed his guilty knowledge in the most public way possible, panicking at the prospect of the syrup being tested because he knew what it contained—or what he believed it contained.

Whether this would be enough for a conviction remained to be seen, but one thing was certain: the sweet taste of justice was finally within reach for Otis McBride.

8

Ahushed silence fell over the festival crowd as Deputy McBride led Amos Calloway away from the gazebo. The carefully orchestrated charity auction had transformed into something far more consequential before everyone's eyes, and the townspeople of Brentwood Falls were processing the implications of what they'd just witnessed.

Lucy stood by the testing table, the open bottle of maple syrup still in front of her, feeling both vindicated and slightly shaken. Their plan had worked—perhaps too well. Amos Calloway had revealed his guilty knowledge in front of dozens of witnesses, his desperate attempt to prevent the testing suggesting an intimate knowledge of whatever had killed Otis McBride.

"Well," Maisie murmured, removing her prop laboratory glasses, "that was certainly dramatic."

Mayor Thompson, looking thoroughly bewildered, approached the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, it seems we need to... ah... take a brief intermission in our proceedings. The auction will resume shortly."

As the crowd broke into excited whispers, Lucy noticed Sheriff Pritchard motioning to her from the side of the gazebo. She made her way over to him, expecting a reprimand for the public nature of their sting operation.

Instead, Hank looked almost impressed. "That went more smoothly than I anticipated," he admitted. "Though I could have done without the public spectacle."

"Sometimes social pressure is the most effective tool," Lucy pointed out. "Calloway couldn't maintain his facade when he thought we were about to expose his crime in front of the whole town."

"True," Hank acknowledged. "But this is just the beginning. A dramatic reaction isn't the same as a confession, and Calloway will lawyer up the minute we get him to the station."

"So what happens now?" Lucy asked.

"Now, I interview a very nervous suspect who just showed consciousness of guilt in front of fifty witnesses," Hank replied. "And you stay here and finish your auction like nothing unusual happened."

"But—"

"No buts," Hank cut her off firmly. "You've done your part, Lucy. Let me do mine."

With obvious reluctance, Lucy nodded. "Fine. But you'll tell me what happens?"

"When there's something to tell," Hank promised before following the path Deputy McBride had taken with their suspect.

The auction resumed after a fifteen-minute delay, with Councilwoman Pratt doing her best to recapture the festive atmosphere. Lucy went through the motions mechanically, her mind fixed on what might be transpiring at the sheriff's station.

Maisie appeared at her side as the final bottle was sold. "Stop obsessing," she advised quietly. "You did everything you could. The rest is up to Hank."

"I know," Lucy sighed. "I just hate waiting."

"Well, you won't have to wait alone," Maisie assured her. "Dot's organizing an impromptu gathering at The Perk. The whole investigation team will be there, waiting for news."

Lucy smiled gratefully. "What would I do without you all?"

"Probably end up breaking into the sheriff's station to eavesdrop on the interrogation," Maisie replied with perfect sincerity.

"That's... not entirely implausible," Lucy admitted.

The Perk café was uncharacteristically crowded for a weekend evening. News of the dramatic confrontation at the auction had spread through Brentwood Falls like wildfire, and curious townspeople had flocked to the café hoping for the latest updates.

Lucy, Maisie, Dot, Ellie, and Marnie had claimed a corner table, nursing cups of coffee and speculating about what might be happening at the sheriff's station.

"I still can't believe Calloway panicked like that," Dot marveled. "For such a smooth businessman, he certainly crumbled under pressure."

"That's what happens when someone who thinks they're untouchable suddenly realizes they're not," Marnie declared with satisfaction. "His type always believes they can buy or talk their way out of anything."

"I just hope Sheriff Pritchard can get a confession," Ellie said quietly. "Otherwise, it's still just circumstantial evidence."

"Pretty strong circumstantial evidence," Lucy pointed out. "Combined with the fraud documentation from Otis's ledger, Gus Wheeler's testimony about the tampering operation, and Calloway's reaction today, it makes a compelling case."

"Speaking of Gus," Maisie asked, "what's going to happen to him?"

"Reduced charges in exchange for his testimony, according to Clara Boone," Lucy replied. "He'll face penalties for the syrup tampering, but nothing related to Otis's death."

The bell above the café door jingled, and the entire room fell silent as Sheriff Pritchard entered. His expression was unreadable as he scanned the crowded space, his gaze finally landing on Lucy's table.

"Well, this isn't obvious at all," he commented dryly as he approached. "The entire investigation committee waiting for my report."

"We prefer 'justice league,'" Maisie corrected with a smile. "More dramatic."

Despite his attempt at sternness, the corner of Hank's mouth twitched. "May I join you?"

They quickly made room, and Hank settled into the chair Dot pulled over from a neighboring table. Mabel, the café owner, appeared almost instantly with a large black coffee.

"On the house, Sheriff," she said. "Now tell us everything."

Hank accepted the coffee with a grateful nod but held up a cautioning hand to the gathering crowd. "I can't discuss details of an ongoing investigation."

A collective groan of disappointment swept through the café.

"However," he continued, "I can confirm that Amos Calloway has been officially charged with the murder of Otis McBride."

The room erupted in exclamations and questions, which Hank silenced with a raised hand. "That's all I can share publicly at this time. The rest will come out during legal proceedings."

Once the initial excitement died down and the other patrons reluctantly returned to their tables, Hank leaned closer to Lucy's group. "Unofficially, and strictly between us, we got him."

"He confessed?" Lucy whispered eagerly.

"Not at first," Hank replied. "But when we presented him with the evidence from Otis's ledger, Gus Wheeler's testimony, and the lab analysis confirming cyanide in samples from the metal box, his lawyer advised him to consider a plea deal."

"A plea deal?" Ellie frowned. "For murdering my uncle?"

"Second-degree murder instead of first," Hank explained. "With the fraud charges on top. He's looking at twenty-five years minimum, but avoiding the possibility of life without parole."

"And he took it?" Marnie asked skeptically.

"After three hours of watching his options disappear one by one," Hank confirmed. "Your auction stunt was actually the tipping point. His lawyer couldn't explain away his reaction to the syrup testing."

"So he told you everything?" Lucy pressed.

Hank nodded. "Most of it aligns with what we'd already pieced together. The syrup dilution scheme had been operating for about eighteen months, netting Calloway Pantry Products millions in additional profits by stretching their premium maple offerings with corn syrup and artificial flavoring."

"But why involve Otis's operation directly?" Dot wondered. "Why not just dilute the syrup after purchasing it legitimately?"

"Authenticity," Hank explained. "By having the tampering occur on-site at McBride's, they could claim the syrup came directly from Otis's sugar shack to the customer, no intermediary processing. It was key to their marketing."

"And Gus Wheeler helped them," Ellie said, her expression troubled.

"For a price," Hank confirmed. "Though Calloway maintains Gus didn't know about the murder plan. He was just the inside man for the dilution scheme."

"So what happened?" Maisie asked. "How did Otis discover the fraud?"

Hank took a sip of his coffee before continuing. "About a month before his death, Otis began noticing inconsistencies in his stored barrels. Syrup that didn't quite match his production records. He started testing samples and discovered the dilution."

"That's when he installed the security camera," Lucy interjected.

"Exactly," Hank nodded. "He caught Gus tampering with the barrels and fired him immediately. But by then, Otis had already begun documenting everything in his ledger, gathering evidence for the authorities and the maple producers' association."

"But the tampering continued even after Gus was fired," Marnie pointed out.

"Because Calloway had another inside person," Hank revealed. "Someone who could access the sugar shack after Gus was gone."

"Who?" Lucy asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer.

"Jennifer Reid, Calloway's production manager," Hank confirmed. "She's been cooperating with our investigation since yesterday, hoping for leniency."

Lucy remembered the efficiency-minded woman who had guided them through Calloway's facility, her nervous reaction when they'd asked about the syrup blending.

"So Otis caught her on his security camera," Lucy surmised.

"And confronted Calloway directly, threatening to expose the entire operation at the Maple Festival," Hank continued. "He had documented evidence of trademark infringement, food safety violations, consumer fraud—enough to destroy Calloway Pantry Products and potentially send Amos to prison."

"So Calloway decided murder was the answer," Ellie said quietly.

Hank nodded grimly. "He claims it wasn't premeditated—that he went to reason with Otis one last time the day before the festival. When Otis refused to back down, Calloway... lost control."

"Lost control how, exactly?" Marnie demanded.

"According to his confession, he'd brought a vial of sodium cyanide with him," Hank explained. "Allegedly as a demonstration of what could happen if competitors wanted to sabotage each other—a veiled threat to discourage Otis from going public."

"But instead, he used it on Otis's test batch," Lucy concluded.

"He saw an opportunity when Otis stepped away from his workbench momentarily," Hank confirmed. "Added the cyanide to the testing ladle Otis had been using. When Otis returned and sampled the batch..."

He didn't need to finish the sentence. They all knew what had happened next.

"And the fire at the sugar shack?" Dot asked.

"Calloway again, with Jennifer Reid's help," Hank said. "After Lucy and Maisie were spotted at his warehouse, he panicked, thinking we were closing in. He sent Jennifer to destroy any remaining evidence."

A heavy silence fell over the table as they absorbed the full scope of Amos Calloway's crimes. What had begun as corporate fraud had escalated to murder and arson, all to protect profits and reputation.

"At least it's over now," Maisie said after a moment. "Otis has justice."

"Thanks in no small part to all of you," Hank acknowledged, his gaze resting on Lucy. "Though I still don't approve of your methods."

"But you appreciate our results," Lucy pointed out with a small smile.

"Occasionally," Hank admitted. "Very occasionally."

As the conversation shifted to the future of the festival and the memorial scholarship, Lucy found herself watching Ellie. Otis's niece sat quietly, absorbing the details of her uncle's final days with a composed dignity that Lucy found admirable.

"Are you okay?" Lucy asked softly, leaning toward her.

Ellie nodded slowly. "It helps to know the truth. To understand why it happened. Uncle Otis died protecting the integrity of his craft—that's something I can be proud of, even through the grief."

"What will you do with the business now?" Lucy asked.

"I'm not sure yet," Ellie admitted. "I don't have Uncle Otis's skills or experience. But I also can't bear the thought of letting McBride's Maple disappear."

"You don't have to decide immediately," Lucy assured her. "And whatever you choose, you'll have the support of everyone here."

Ellie managed a small smile. "I know. That's what makes Brentwood Falls special. The community."

Their conversation was interrupted as Mayor Thompson entered the café, making his way directly to their table.

"Sheriff Pritchard," he said formally. "I've just heard the news about Amos Calloway's arrest. The town council would like to express our gratitude for your department's work in solving this case so quickly."

"Just doing my job, Mayor," Hank replied modestly.

The mayor turned to Lucy and her friends. "And to all of you as well. The council has been informed of your... unofficial assistance in the investigation. While we can't officially endorse civilian involvement in police matters..."

"We understand," Lucy assured him, fighting a smile.

"However," the mayor continued, "we would like to formally recognize your contributions during tomorrow's memorial ceremony for Otis. The scholarship fund has already exceeded our initial goals, thanks to today's auction."

"That's wonderful news," Ellie said, her eyes brightening. "Uncle Otis would have been so pleased."

After the mayor departed, Marnie raised her coffee mug. "To Otis McBride," she proclaimed. "The finest maple producer Brentwood Falls has ever known."

"To Otis," they echoed, clinking their mugs together.

As the evening wore on, Lucy found herself reflecting on the strange path that had led them to this moment. What had begun as a tragic accident at a beloved local festival had revealed itself as something far more sinister—corporate greed turning deadly when challenged by one principled man who refused to compromise his standards.

The case had tested her amateur sleuthing skills, pushed the boundaries of her relationship with Sheriff Pritchard, and ultimately brought justice for Otis McBride. And somewhere along the way, she realized, her ad hoc investigation team had become something more—a group of friends united by a common purpose, each contributing their unique skills to uncover the truth.

"Penny for your thoughts," Maisie said, nudging Lucy gently.

"I was just thinking about how we all came together for this," Lucy replied. "The unlikely detectives of Brentwood Falls."

"God help us all if you start thinking of this as a regular activity," Hank commented, overhearing. "I've got enough gray hairs already."

"I make no promises," Lucy grinned. "Brentwood Falls seems to have an unexpected knack for mysteries."

"Well, this one at least has been solved," Hank said, rising from the table. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a mountain of paperwork to complete before tomorrow's memorial ceremony."

As Hank departed, Dot leaned forward conspiratorially. "So, what's next for the Brentwood Falls Amateur Detective Agency?"

"Absolutely nothing," Lucy declared firmly. "I'm going back to being a normal, mystery-solving-free librarian."

Her friends exchanged skeptical glances.

"What?" Lucy protested. "I mean it this time!"

"Of course you do," Maisie patted her hand indulgently. "Just like you meant it when you promised Sheriff Pritchard you wouldn't investigate Otis's death."

"Or when you promised to stop after finding the ledger," Ellie added.

"Or when you swore you were done after the warehouse incident," Dot chimed in.

"I sense a pattern," Marnie concluded dryly.

Lucy threw up her hands in surrender. "Fine! I admit I might have a small problem with curiosity."

"A small problem?" Maisie repeated incredulously. "Lucy, you set up an elaborate sting operation involving a fake charity auction just to trap a murder suspect. That's not a small problem—that's a full-blown detective complex."

Despite her attempt to look offended, Lucy couldn't help laughing. "Alright, I concede the point. But in my defense, it worked."

"It did," Ellie acknowledged, her expression turning serious again. "And my uncle has justice because of it. I'll never be able to thank you enough for that, Lucy."

"No thanks necessary," Lucy assured her. "That's what friends do in Brentwood Falls—they look out for each other."

As the evening drew to a close and they prepared to head home, Lucy found herself feeling both satisfied and slightly wistful. The mystery that had consumed her thoughts for days was solved, the villain apprehended, justice served. It was the perfect ending to their investigation.

But as a librarian, Lucy knew that every satisfying conclusion simply set the stage for a new beginning. And somewhere in Brentwood Falls, perhaps another mystery was already taking shape, waiting for a curious mind to unravel its secrets.

For now, though, she was content to savor the sweet taste of success—as rich and satisfying as Otis McBride's finest maple syrup.

The following morning, Lucy arrived at the festival grounds early, helping with final preparations for Otis's memorial ceremony. The town square had been transformed overnight, with a portrait of Otis displayed prominently on the gazebo, surrounded by maple leaf garlands and bottles of his syrup.

Sheriff Pritchard was conducting a final security sweep, looking more relaxed than Lucy had seen him in days. "Morning, Lucy," he greeted her. "Ready for the big ceremony?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," she replied. "Still feels surreal, knowing we actually solved the case."

"Don't get too comfortable with that feeling," Hank warned, though his tone was light. "It's addictive."

"Voice of experience?" Lucy teased.

"Maybe," Hank admitted. "But at least I get paid for my detective work."

Lucy smiled. "The satisfaction of a mystery solved is payment enough."

"Spoken like a true amateur," Hank shook his head. "By the way, there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"What's that?"

"How did you know?" Hank asked. "From the very beginning, you were convinced Otis's death wasn't an accident. What tipped you off?"

Lucy considered the question. "It was the cookie jar murder all over again," she said finally.

"The what?" Hank looked confused.

"Winnie Baxter, the baker who was killed last fall," Lucy explained. "Everyone thought she accidentally dropped a cookie jar and hit her head, but it turned out to be murder. Otis's death had the same feel—a supposedly careless accident by someone who was meticulously careful in their work. It didn't add up."

"So you relied on instinct?" Hank seemed surprised.

"Instinct backed by observation," Lucy clarified. "The best mysteries are solved by paying attention to the details that don't fit the official narrative."

Hank studied her with newfound respect. "You know, in another life, you might have made a decent detective, Blackstone."

"I'll take that as high praise," Lucy smiled. "Though I'm quite content with my library."

"Good," Hank said firmly. "Let's keep it that way. At least until the next impossible crime needs solving."

As Hank moved on with his security rounds, Lucy couldn't help wondering if that next impossible crime might be closer than either of them imagined. Brentwood Falls had revealed itself to be a place where dark secrets could hide beneath the most charming of small-town facades.

But for today, at least, justice had prevailed. The memorial would honor Otis's life and legacy, the scholarship would support future craftspeople dedicated to traditional methods, and his killer would face the consequences of his actions.

Sometimes, Lucy reflected, even the most bitter truths could lead to the sweetest resolution.

9

The memorial ceremony for Otis McBride began precisely at noon on the second day of the festival. The town square gazebo, usually decorated with cheerful maple leaf garlands and festive banners, had been transformed into a dignified tribute. A large portrait of Otis, beaming proudly beside his prize-winning syrup display, occupied the center position, surrounded by arrangements of early spring flowers and bottles of his signature amber syrup.

Lucy stood with Maisie, Dot, and Ellie near the front of the gathering crowd. The entire town seemed to have turned out, along with numerous visitors from neighboring communities—a testament to the respect and affection Otis had earned throughout his life.

"Incredible turnout," Maisie murmured, surveying the sea of faces. "I don't think I've seen this many people in the square since the bicentennial celebration."

"Otis would have been overwhelmed," Ellie replied softly, her eyes glistening. "He always claimed to be 'just a simple syrup maker.'"

"Nothing simple about Otis McBride," Dot assured her. "That man elevated maple syrup to an art form."

Mayor Thompson approached the podium, adjusting his tie nervously before speaking into the microphone. The gentle murmur of conversation faded as he cleared his throat.

"Friends, neighbors, visitors," he began, his voice carrying across the hushed crowd. "We gather today not only to mourn the loss of Otis McBride but to celebrate his extraordinary life and legacy. Otis was the heart and soul of our Maple Festival for more than four decades, and it is only fitting that from this day forward, this celebration will officially be known as the Otis McBride Memorial Maple Festival."

Approving applause rippled through the audience.

"Otis embodied the very best of Brentwood Falls—dedication to craft, unwavering integrity, and a generous spirit that touched everyone who knew him," the mayor continued. "When we lost him, we lost not just a master maple producer, but a beloved friend who made our community sweeter in every sense of the word."

Lucy glanced around the crowd, noting the emotional reactions on familiar faces. Marnie Higgins dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Silas Boone stood with his wife Clara, his typically stern expression softened by genuine sorrow. Even Sheriff Pritchard, positioned at the edge of the gathering with Deputy McBride, looked moved by the proceedings.

"But today is not only about mourning," Mayor Thompson continued. "It's about ensuring Otis's legacy endures. I'm pleased to announce that, thanks to yesterday's auction and additional contributions from our community, the Otis McBride Memorial Scholarship has been fully funded. Each year, a promising student pursuing traditional food crafts will receive support in Otis's name."

Fresh applause, stronger this time, greeted this announcement. Ellie squeezed Lucy's hand in silent gratitude.

"I'd also like to take a moment to acknowledge the resolution of the tragic circumstances surrounding Otis's death," the mayor said, his tone growing more solemn. "Thanks to the diligent work of Sheriff Pritchard and his department, the person responsible has been apprehended and justice is being served."

Hank nodded slightly in acknowledgment as several people turned to glance his way.

"Additionally," the mayor continued, "the council would like to recognize several citizens whose assistance proved invaluable in this matter." He consulted a note card. "Lucy Blackstone, Maisie Carter, Dorothy Fletcher, Marnie Higgins, and Ellie McBride—would you please join me on the gazebo?"

Lucy exchanged surprised glances with her friends. This public recognition hadn't been part of the plan mentioned to them the previous evening.

"Go on," Dot whispered, giving Lucy a gentle push forward. "Our moment of glory awaits."

Somewhat self-consciously, the five women made their way to the gazebo steps and joined the mayor at the podium.

"These five remarkable women demonstrated extraordinary dedication to uncovering the truth behind Otis's death," Mayor Thompson announced. "Through their combined efforts and collaboration with law enforcement, they helped bring a calculating criminal to justice and protected our community from further harm."

Lucy felt her face warming at this public praise, especially when she caught Sheriff Pritchard's expression—a mixture of resignation and reluctant approval.

"In recognition of their service to Brentwood Falls," the mayor continued, reaching for a small stack of certificates on the podium, "the town council has prepared these commendations."

As the mayor presented each woman with a formally sealed certificate—complete with the town's maple leaf emblem in gold foil—the crowd's applause swelled. Lucy accepted hers with surprise, reading the flowing script: "In recognition of exceptional civic service and dedication to justice in Brentwood Falls."

"Thank you, Mayor," Lucy said when it was her turn at the microphone. "But we were just doing what anyone would do for a friend and neighbor. Otis meant so much to all of us, and ensuring the truth about his death came to light was the least we could do to honor his memory."

Ellie stepped forward next, her voice steady despite the emotion evident in her eyes. "My uncle lived by a simple principle—quality and integrity above all else. In the end, he died defending those same values. The best way we can honor him is by upholding the standards he set, both in maple production and in our community."

After the ceremony concluded and the crowd began dispersing toward the festival attractions, Sheriff Pritchard made his way to where Lucy and her friends were admiring their certificates.

"Quite the heroes of the hour," he commented, though his tone held no reproach.

"This was unnecessary," Lucy replied, holding up her certificate. "We were just following leads."

"Following leads, organizing sting operations, infiltrating business premises..." Hank listed dryly. "Just typical community volunteer work."

Maisie grinned. "We prefer to think of it as 'enhanced civic engagement.'"

"I'm sure you do," Hank replied, the corner of his mouth twitching. His expression turned more serious as he addressed all of them. "Despite my... reservations about your methods, I do want to formally thank you. Each of you contributed valuable information that helped bring Amos Calloway to justice."

"That almost sounded like approval, Sheriff," Marnie observed with a raised eyebrow.

"Don't push it, Marnie," Hank warned, though without heat. "And Lucy⁠—"

"I know, I know," Lucy interrupted with a smile. "No more playing detective."

"At least until the next suspicious death in Brentwood Falls," Hank said resignedly.

"Which hopefully won't be anytime soon," Dot interjected firmly. "I think we've had enough excitement to last us the year."

Lucy was about to agree when she noticed Silas and Clara Boone approaching, accompanied by a subdued Gus Wheeler. The young man looked uncomfortable, his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his gaze fixed on the ground.

"Ms. Blackstone," Silas greeted her, extending his hand. "I owe you an apology. I wasn't... entirely forthcoming during your investigation."

Lucy shook his hand, surprised by this uncharacteristic display of humility from Otis's longtime rival. "You were protecting Gus," she acknowledged. "I understand why."

"Still," Silas insisted, "I should have trusted the authorities. Maybe if I had come forward sooner with what Gus told us about Calloway's operation, things would have turned out differently."

"There's no way to know that," Lucy assured him. "Calloway was determined to silence Otis. He might have found another way."

Gus Wheeler finally looked up, his expression a mixture of shame and relief. "I wanted to thank you too," he said quietly. "Sheriff Pritchard said that because I cooperated and didn't know about the... the murder plan... I'm getting a reduced charge. Community service and probation instead of jail time."

"That seems fair," Lucy nodded. "You made mistakes, Gus, but you didn't intend for anyone to get hurt."

"I've offered Gus his job back," Silas added. "Once his community service is complete. We all deserve second chances."

"That's generous of you," Maisie commented, studying Silas with newfound respect.

Clara Boone spoke up for the first time. "It's the least we can do, considering our own role in this mess. If we'd reported what Gus told us about the tampering sooner..." She trailed off, shaking her head.

An awkward silence fell, broken by the arrival of Marnie Higgins, who had been speaking with festival vendors.

"Well, if it isn't Silas Boone," she declared, hands on her hips. "Finally crawled out from under your rock of suspicion, have you?"

"Hello to you too, Marnie," Silas replied dryly. "Charming as ever."

Lucy tensed, anticipating one of the legendary Higgins-Boone verbal sparring matches that had entertained the town for years. But to her surprise, Marnie's stern expression softened.

"I've been thinking," she said, uncharacteristically hesitant. "About Otis's legacy. About what happens to McBride's Maple now."

Silas nodded solemnly. "It would be a tragedy to lose his traditions."

"Exactly," Marnie agreed. "Which is why I've been talking to Ellie." She gestured toward Otis's niece, who stepped forward. "She doesn't have the experience to run the operation alone, but she has Otis's recipes and methods."

"And his values," Ellie added. "But Marnie's right—I need help if McBride's Maple is going to continue."

Silas frowned slightly. "What are you suggesting, Marnie?"

"A partnership," Marnie declared boldly. "Between the three of us. Ellie provides Otis's recipes and the McBride name. I contribute my expertise in specialty maple products and marketing. And you, Silas, could offer your modern production facilities and distribution networks."

Silas blinked in surprise. "You want us to work together? After thirty years of competition?"

"It's what Otis would have wanted," Marnie insisted. "To preserve traditional methods while embracing sensible innovations. To keep authentic, quality maple syrup flowing from Brentwood Falls."

Clara touched her husband's arm gently. "It could work, Silas. We've been talking about expanding anyway, and this would honor Otis's legacy."

Silas looked thoughtful, stroking his chin. "A three-way partnership to continue the McBride tradition... It's unorthodox, but then again, so was Otis."

"We'd call it 'McBride's Legacy,'" Ellie suggested. "Each bottle would carry Uncle Otis's maple leaf stamp, but with modern production and expanded distribution."

Lucy watched this unexpected negotiation with growing amazement. The bitter rivals of Brentwood Falls' maple scene, considering a collaboration in Otis's memory? It seemed the tragedy had catalyzed something positive after all.

"It could work," Silas finally acknowledged. "We'd need to hammer out the details, of course. Profit sharing, operational responsibilities..."

"We can figure all that out," Marnie waved away his concerns. "The important thing is preserving Otis's standards and continuing his work. Are you in?"

Silas exchanged a look with Clara, who nodded encouragingly. "I'm in," he declared, extending his hand to Marnie. "For Otis."

"For Otis," Marnie agreed, shaking his hand firmly.

Lucy caught Sheriff Pritchard's eye, sharing a moment of quiet appreciation for this unexpected reconciliation. Perhaps some good could come from tragedy after all.

"Well," Hank said, breaking the moment, "I should get back to my festival security duties. And you all should enjoy the day—you've earned it."

As the sheriff departed, Dot clapped her hands decisively. "He's right! We've spent enough time solving crimes and attending solemn ceremonies. There's a festival happening all around us—with maple cotton candy that's calling my name!"

"I could use some maple ice cream myself," Maisie agreed. "Anyone care to join us?"

The tension of the past week seemed to lift as they dispersed into the festival. Lucy found herself wandering through the bustling grounds with Ellie, sampling maple treats and admiring craft displays.

"I still can't quite believe it," Ellie mused as they paused to watch a demonstration of traditional tapping techniques. "A week ago, I was devastated and lost. Now I'm entering a business partnership to continue Uncle Otis's legacy."

"Life has a way of surprising us," Lucy replied. "Sometimes in terrible ways, but occasionally in wonderful ones too."

"Speaking of surprises," Ellie said, a sly smile spreading across her face. "Did you notice Sheriff Pritchard keeps finding reasons to check in with you? That's the third time he's 'happened' to patrol past us in the last hour."

Lucy felt her cheeks warming. "He's just doing his job. Making sure I'm not investigating any more murders."

"Mmm-hmm," Ellie hummed skeptically. "If you say so."

Before Lucy could formulate a suitably indignant response, Mayor Thompson's voice came over the festival's PA system, announcing a special maple syrup tasting event at the main pavilion. The two women joined the flow of attendees heading in that direction.

The pavilion had been transformed with displays from all the local producers, including a newly combined booth labeled "McBride's Legacy" where Marnie and Silas were already setting up samples side by side—a sight that caused several long-time festival attendees to do visible double-takes.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Mayor Thompson announced from a small stage at the front of the pavilion. "As part of our tribute to Otis McBride, we've arranged a special presentation on the future of maple production in Brentwood Falls."

The mayor handed the microphone to Silas, who looked uncharacteristically nervous addressing the crowd.

"Many of you know me as Otis McBride's competitor," Silas began. "Some might even say his rival. And for many years, that was true. We had different approaches, different philosophies about syrup production."

The crowd murmured in agreement—the Boone-McBride maple debates were legendary in local circles.

"But what you might not know," Silas continued, "is how much I respected Otis. How much I learned from him, even as we competed. His dedication to quality and tradition challenged me to be better, to never cut corners even as I embraced new technologies."

Silas gestured to Marnie and Ellie, who joined him on the stage. "Today, I'm honored to announce that Boone's Better Maple will be joining forces with McBride's Maple and Higgins Farm to create a new venture: McBride's Legacy. Together, we will preserve Otis's methods and standards while expanding production to bring Brentwood Falls' finest maple products to a wider audience."

The crowd erupted in surprised applause and excited conversation. This unexpected alliance represented a seismic shift in the local maple industry.

"And I promise you," Silas added with surprising emotion in his voice, "every bottle will contain exactly what's on the label. One hundred percent pure maple syrup, produced with integrity. The way Otis would have wanted it."

As the presentation continued with details about the new partnership, Lucy felt a presence beside her. Sheriff Pritchard had appeared, apparently having completed another "random" patrol route that coincidentally led to her location.

"Quite the development," he commented, nodding toward the stage. "Boone and Higgins working together. Never thought I'd see the day."

"Otis would be pleased," Lucy replied. "His legacy secure, and his competitors finally collaborating instead of feuding."

"One good thing to come out of this whole mess," Hank agreed. "Along with shutting down Calloway's counterfeit syrup operation."

"How's that proceeding?" Lucy asked curiously.

"The state food safety investigators have closed his production facility pending a complete audit," Hank explained. "His corporate clients are abandoning ship by the dozens, and there's talk of a class-action lawsuit from consumers who paid premium prices for diluted product."

"So his empire's crumbling," Lucy observed.

"Faster than a maple sugar candy in hot tea," Hank confirmed with satisfaction. "Justice comes in many forms."

They stood in companionable silence, watching as Marnie demonstrated the traditional grading system for maple syrup, holding bottles up to the light to showcase the varying amber hues.

"You know," Hank said finally, "you did good work on this case, Lucy. Despite my... reservations about your methods."

Lucy smiled at this begrudging compliment. "High praise indeed, coming from you, Sheriff."

"Don't let it go to your head," Hank warned, though his eyes crinkled with amusement. "I still prefer my investigations to proceed without civilian interference."

"Even when said interference leads to solving the crime?" Lucy asked innocently.

"Even then," Hank insisted. "Professional law enforcement exists for a reason. We have training, procedures, legal authority⁠—"

"And sometimes, a certain blindness to the patterns that locals might notice," Lucy finished for him. "Admit it, Hank—my librarian's eye for detail helped crack this case."

Hank sighed in defeat. "Fine. Your observational skills were... helpful. But that doesn't mean I'm encouraging you to investigate the next suspicious death in Brentwood Falls."

"There won't be a next one," Lucy declared optimistically. "Otis's case was an anomaly. Brentwood Falls will go back to being the peaceful, crime-free town it's always been."

The skeptical look Hank gave her suggested he didn't share her confidence, but he merely said, "For all our sakes, I hope you're right."

As the demonstration concluded and the crowd dispersed toward other festival attractions, Lucy found herself reflecting on the events of the past week. A beloved community member had been lost, a criminal enterprise exposed, justice served. And through it all, the town had come together, not just to mourn but to ensure Otis's legacy would continue.

The scholarship in his name would support future artisans. The new business partnership would preserve his methods and standards. And the renamed festival would honor his memory for generations to come.

It wasn't a happy ending—not with Otis gone—but perhaps it was the next best thing: a meaningful continuation of the story he had started. And in a small town like Brentwood Falls, where traditions and connections ran as deep as the maple roots in the surrounding forests, perhaps that was the most fitting tribute of all.

Lucy took a final look around the vibrant festival grounds, alive with laughter and conversation despite the shadow that had fallen over it just days before. Life went on, sweet and complex as maple syrup itself. And she was grateful to have played a small part in ensuring that the sweetness wasn't permanently tainted by the bitterness of unresolved injustice.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Maisie asked, appearing at her side with two maple ice cream cones.

Lucy accepted one with a smile. "Just thinking about endings and beginnings. How sometimes they're the same thing."

"Very philosophical," Maisie observed, licking her ice cream. "But maybe save the deep thoughts for after the festival? We've earned a little celebration, don't you think?"

"Absolutely," Lucy agreed, linking arms with her friend as they headed toward the music pavilion where a local bluegrass band was setting up. "After all, what would Otis want more than seeing his beloved festival continuing in his honor?"

Behind them, the "McBride's Legacy" banner fluttered in the spring breeze, a promise kept and a new chapter beginning in the sweet saga of Brentwood Falls.

10

The final day of the Otis McBride Memorial Maple Festival dawned with perfect spring weather—crisp morning air warming gradually under a cloudless blue sky. Lucy woke early, drawn by the promise of the festival's traditional closing day pancake breakfast and the satisfaction of a mystery well and truly solved.

She dressed in a light sweater adorned with a small maple leaf pin that Ellie had given her the previous day—"Honorary maple producer," Ellie had declared with a smile—and headed to the town square. The festival grounds were already bustling despite the early hour, with vendors setting up for their final day and the tantalizing aroma of pancakes and maple syrup drawing a growing crowd to the community dining tent.

"There she is!" Maisie called, waving enthusiastically from a table near the center of the tent. "Our very own Miss Maple."

Lucy rolled her eyes good-naturedly as she joined her friends. Dot, Marnie, and Ellie were already seated, looking remarkably refreshed considering the emotional rollercoaster of the past week.

"Please don't tell me that nickname is sticking," Lucy groaned, sliding onto the bench beside Maisie.

"Too late," Dot grinned, passing her a steaming mug of coffee. "I heard at least three people use it yesterday after the ceremony."

"Wonderful," Lucy sighed. "Just what my professional librarian image needed."

"Could be worse," Marnie pointed out pragmatically. "They could be calling you 'Maple Marple' after that detective in the mystery novels."

"I think that's 'Marple,' not 'Maple,'" Lucy corrected automatically.

"See? That right there is why you're so good at this detective business," Maisie teased. "Attention to detail."

Before Lucy could formulate a suitably indignant response, a server arrived with platters piled high with golden pancakes, alongside pitchers of various maple syrups ranging from delicate amber to robust dark.

"Compliments of McBride's Legacy," the server announced. "Ms. Higgins said you should try the special reserve first—it's from Otis's personal stash."

The women exchanged touched glances as they surveyed the feast before them. There was something profoundly fitting about celebrating the resolution of Otis's case with the product he had dedicated his life to perfecting.

"I propose a toast," Ellie said, raising her coffee mug. "To Uncle Otis—and to good friends who ensure justice is served, even when it's sticky."

"To Otis," they echoed, clinking mugs before turning their attention to the pancakes.

Lucy poured a generous stream of the special reserve syrup over her stack, watching as it caught the morning light filtering through the tent. The rich amber liquid seemed almost to glow as it cascaded over the pancakes.

"This really is incredible," she marveled after taking her first bite. "I've had maple syrup all my life, but nothing quite like this."

"That's because most people never taste the real thing," Marnie explained, gesturing with her fork. "Even before Calloway's counterfeit operation, most so-called maple syrup on store shelves was diluted, processed, or artificially flavored. What you're tasting now is pure tradition, harvested and processed the way Otis's grandfather taught him."

"Which is exactly why we're committed to maintaining his standards with McBride's Legacy," Ellie added. "No compromises, no shortcuts."

"Speaking of McBride's Legacy," Dot leaned forward eagerly, "how are negotiations going with Silas? Any bloodshed yet?"

Marnie snorted. "Surprisingly civil, actually. Turns out the old curmudgeon does have some good ideas about modernizing distribution without sacrificing quality."

"And Clara Boone is a financial wizard," Ellie chimed in. "She's already sketched out a business plan that could double production while actually increasing quality control."

"Wonders never cease," Maisie commented. "A murder investigation that ends with bitter rivals becoming business partners. Only in Brentwood Falls."

"Speaking of investigation," Dot turned to Lucy, "what does Sheriff Pritchard think of your amateur sleuthing career now? Still disapproving?"

Lucy considered this as she savored another bite of syrup-drenched pancake. "I think he's reached a state of resigned acceptance. He didn't actually handcuff me to prevent me from investigating, which I'm counting as tacit approval."

"Very low bar," Maisie observed dryly.

"With Hank? That's practically a ringing endorsement," Lucy replied with a smile.

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Sheriff Pritchard appeared at the entrance to the dining tent, scanning the crowded tables until his gaze landed on their group. With a brief word to Deputy McBride, who continued on his patrol route, Hank made his way toward them.

"Ladies," he greeted them, removing his hat. "Enjoying the festival's final day?"

"Absolutely," Lucy confirmed. "Care to join us? There's plenty to share."

Hank hesitated only briefly before taking the empty seat beside Ellie. "I suppose I can spare a few minutes. It's been a quiet morning, thankfully."

"No new murders to solve?" Maisie asked innocently, earning herself a kick under the table from Lucy.

"Not a one," Hank replied with equal innocence. "Though I did have to break up a heated argument between Mrs. Fincher and Mr. Phillips about whose maple fudge recipe deserved a blue ribbon."

"The annual fudge dispute," Marnie nodded sagely. "Some traditions never die."

A server brought Hank his own short stack of pancakes, which he regarded with appreciation before drizzling them with the special reserve syrup.

"So," he said after his first bite, "have you solved any additional crimes over breakfast, or are you taking the day off?"

Lucy narrowed her eyes at him. "Very funny. I'll have you know I'm officially retired from detective work as of this moment."

"Retired?" Hank repeated skeptically. "After such a successful career?"

"Two cases is hardly a career," Lucy protested.

"Two solved murders in six months is more action than Brentwood Falls has seen in twenty years," Hank pointed out. "You're developing quite the reputation."

Lucy groaned. "Don't remind me. Mrs. Abernathy from the historical society already cornered me yesterday to ask if I'd look into who's been removing artifacts from their display cases."

"And will you?" Hank asked, a hint of resignation in his voice.

"Of course not," Lucy insisted. "I told her to file a proper police report. I'm a librarian, not a private investigator."

"A librarian with an uncanny knack for solving crimes," Maisie amended. "You can't deny you enjoyed it, Lucy. I've never seen you so energized as when you were connecting the dots in Otis's case."

Lucy couldn't entirely refute this. There had been something uniquely satisfying about piecing together the puzzle of Otis's death, about finding the truth buried beneath layers of deception and bringing a calculating killer to justice.

"Maybe I did enjoy certain aspects," she admitted reluctantly. "The research, the pattern recognition, the way seemingly unrelated details suddenly connect... it's not entirely unlike literary analysis."

"Or cataloging," Dot suggested. "Finding where each piece belongs in the greater system."

"Exactly," Lucy nodded. "But that doesn't mean I'm looking for another case to solve. Brentwood Falls is normally a very peaceful town."

The skeptical expressions around the table suggested her friends didn't share her optimistic assessment.

"What?" she demanded.

"Lucy," Marnie said gently, "in the six years you've lived here, we've had a haunted hayride that ended with the mayor trapped in an abandoned well, a Christmas pageant where the Baby Jesus was kidnapped⁠—"

"That was a prank by the high school drama club," Lucy interjected.

"—a Valentine's Day dance where all the punch was spiked with a powerful laxative⁠—"

"Another prank!"

"—and now two actual murders within six months," Marnie finished triumphantly. "Face it, dear. Brentwood Falls has more drama per capita than a soap opera."

Lucy looked to Hank for support, but the sheriff merely shrugged. "She's not wrong. Small towns breed interesting situations. All that proximity, all those long-held secrets."

"Which is exactly why you should write it all down," Maisie declared suddenly.

Lucy blinked at this non sequitur. "Write what down?"

"Your cases!" Maisie explained, warming to her idea. "The Cookie Crumb Murder and now the Maple Syrup Mystery. You could be the next Agatha Christie, but with more pancakes and small-town charm."

"Don't be ridiculous," Lucy protested, though she couldn't help feeling a tiny flutter of intrigue at the suggestion. "No one would want to read about the mundane details of how we solved Otis's murder."

"Mundane?" Dot exclaimed. "Lucy, you set up a sting operation at a charity auction to trap a maple syrup counterfeiter who'd committed murder to protect his criminal empire. I'd read that book in a heartbeat."

"So would I," Ellie agreed. "Especially with all the quirky local characters."

"I resent being called quirky," Marnie sniffed, though her eyes twinkled with amusement.

"Write whatever you want," Hank interjected, "as long as you change the names and don't publish anything that could interfere with actual law enforcement."

Lucy stared at him. "You're encouraging this fantasy?"

Hank took another bite of his pancakes before answering. "I figure if you're busy writing about solving crimes, you might have less time to actually meddle in my investigations."

"Smart man," Maisie approved.

"I do not meddle," Lucy insisted. "I assist. In a purely unofficial, civic-minded capacity."

The collective eye-rolling around the table suggested her distinction wasn't universally accepted.

As breakfast concluded and they prepared to enjoy the festival's final day, Lucy found herself contemplating Maisie's suggestion more seriously than she had initially let on. There was something appealing about capturing the unique character of Brentwood Falls in writing—its quirks and customs, its seasonal rhythms, and yes, even its occasional mysteries.

The group dispersed to various festival activities, with promises to reconnect for the closing ceremony later that afternoon. Lucy found herself wandering the craft booths, admiring handmade maple wood carvings and artisanal candles, her mind still turning over the events of the past week.

"Penny for your thoughts," a voice interrupted her reverie. Sheriff Pritchard had appeared beside her, having apparently completed another circuit of the festival grounds.

"Inflation's hit hard," Lucy replied with a smile. "They're worth at least a quarter now."

"Fair enough," Hank chuckled, falling into step beside her. "Quarter for your thoughts, then."

Lucy considered how to articulate the blend of satisfaction, wistfulness, and anticipation she was feeling. "I was just thinking about closure," she said finally. "How satisfying it is when all the pieces fall into place, but also how...final it feels. Like finishing a really good book."

"Except in real life, there's always another chapter," Hank observed. "Ellie and the others starting McBride's Legacy. Gus Wheeler getting his second chance. Amos Calloway facing consequences."

"And the rest of us moving forward," Lucy added. "Back to normal life."

"Normal being a relative term in Brentwood Falls," Hank noted dryly.

They had reached the maple tapping demonstration area, where Silas Boone was explaining modern collection techniques to an attentive audience. The sight of Otis's longtime rival now carrying forward his traditions struck Lucy as a particularly fitting form of justice.

"You know," she said thoughtfully, "when I moved here from the city, I thought I was choosing a quiet life. Simple. Predictable."

"And instead you got...?"

"Community," Lucy replied without hesitation. "Complicated, messy, occasionally criminal, but never boring."

Hank nodded in understanding. "That's small-town life for you. Everyone in everyone else's business, for better or worse."

"Mostly better, I think," Lucy decided. "At least in Brentwood Falls."

They continued their circuit of the festival in companionable silence, nodding to familiar faces and pausing occasionally to examine particularly interesting displays.

"So," Hank said eventually, "are you really retiring from your detecting hobby?"

Lucy gave him a sideways glance. "Why? Would you miss my meddling?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Hank hedged, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested otherwise. "Let's just say I've come to... appreciate your perspective on certain cases."

"High praise indeed," Lucy teased. "But to answer your question—yes, I'm officially retired. Unless..."

"Unless?" Hank prompted, looking resigned to whatever condition was coming.

"Unless someone needs help that only a librarian with excellent research skills and pattern recognition abilities can provide," Lucy finished innocently.

Hank shook his head, but there was no real exasperation in the gesture. "I knew it. You're hooked."

"I prefer to think of it as 'civically available,'" Lucy corrected primly.

"Well, Ms. Civically Available," Hank said, "just remember that there are procedures, protocols, and laws governing criminal investigations. And I'd appreciate at least a heads-up before you set your next trap for a murderer."

"That seems reasonable," Lucy agreed magnanimously. "Partners should keep each other informed."

"Partners?" Hank repeated, eyebrows rising. "That's a significant promotion from 'meddling civilian.'"

"I solved two murders," Lucy reminded him. "I think I've earned at least consultant status."

The sheriff's reply was interrupted by the festival's closing ceremony announcement coming over the PA system. They made their way to the town square gazebo, where Mayor Thompson was preparing to officially conclude the renamed Otis McBride Memorial Maple Festival.

Lucy rejoined her friends, who had saved her a spot near the front of the gathering. As the mayor delivered his closing remarks, reflecting on the festival's success despite its tragic beginnings, Lucy found herself surveying the familiar faces of her community with newfound appreciation.

There was Dot, already making notes for next year's library display. Maisie, snapping photos for her social media accounts. Ellie, standing proudly with her new business partners, Marnie and the Boones. Deputy McBride, vigilant at the perimeter. And Sheriff Pritchard, maintaining his professional demeanor while occasionally catching her eye with what Lucy could almost swear was a conspiratorial glance.

These were the people who had come together to ensure justice for Otis—each contributing their unique strengths to uncover the truth. And while Lucy might have been the one to connect the final dots, she couldn't have done it without their collective effort.

"I declare the first annual Otis McBride Memorial Maple Festival officially closed," Mayor Thompson announced to enthusiastic applause. "Thank you all for making this a celebration worthy of Otis's memory."

As the crowd began to disperse, Maisie nudged Lucy. "So, have you started plotting your mystery novel yet?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," Lucy replied airily.

"Please," Maisie scoffed. "I saw you making notes in that little notebook you always carry. And you had your 'I'm creating something in my head' expression."

"I was simply... documenting the festival for the library archives," Lucy insisted, though she couldn't quite meet her friend's knowing gaze.

"Mmm-hmm," Maisie hummed skeptically. "And I suppose 'The Maple Murders' written at the top of the page was also for archival purposes?"

Caught, Lucy surrendered with a laugh. "Fine! I might be playing with the idea. Just as a creative exercise, mind you."

"Of course," Maisie agreed solemnly. "Purely academic. Nothing to do with the fact that you secretly enjoyed playing detective."

"There was nothing secret about my enjoyment," Lucy admitted. "But that doesn't mean I'm hoping for another mystery to solve. Brentwood Falls deserves some peace and quiet."

As if on cue, raised voices caught their attention. Near the craft booths, Mrs. Fincher was gesturing dramatically at her blue-ribbon maple fudge display, where a conspicuous empty space suggested a missing item.

"Theft!" the elderly woman declared loudly. "My prize-winning maple walnut fudge has been stolen! Sheriff Pritchard!"

Lucy and Maisie exchanged glances, simultaneously suppressing smiles.

"Don't even think about it," Maisie warned, recognizing the gleam appearing in Lucy's eye.

"I'm not thinking anything," Lucy protested innocently. "Just observing that Mrs. Fincher seems distressed."

"This is not a murder case," Maisie pointed out. "It's missing fudge. Probably eaten by a squirrel."

"Probably," Lucy agreed, watching as Hank made his way to the distraught fudge-maker with an admirable display of patience. "But you have to admit, it's interesting that the theft occurred right after the ribbon judging, and right before the recipes are published in the festival cookbook."

"Lucy," Maisie groaned. "No. This is exactly how it started last time."

"I'm simply making an observation," Lucy insisted. "Besides, I promised Hank I'd retire from detective work."

"Until the next time someone needs help that only you can provide," Maisie reminded her skeptically.

Lucy's innocent smile didn't waver. "What are the chances of that happening again anytime soon?"

Across the square, Mrs. Fincher was now pointing accusingly at Mr. Phillips, her long-time fudge competition rival, while Hank attempted to mediate what was rapidly becoming a confectionery confrontation.

Maisie followed Lucy's gaze and sighed heavily. "With you? In Brentwood Falls? I'd say approximately one hundred percent."

As they joined the dispersing crowd heading home after the festival's conclusion, Lucy couldn't help but reflect on how unexpectedly her quiet librarian's life had evolved. Six months ago, she would never have imagined herself solving a murder, much less two. Yet here she was, with a growing reputation as Brentwood Falls' unofficial detective and a newfound appreciation for the complex web of relationships that made up her adopted hometown.

Whether or not another mystery appeared on her doorstep, Lucy knew one thing for certain: life in Brentwood Falls would never be boring. And perhaps that was the sweetest realization of all.

As she reached her car, she glanced back at the festival grounds one last time. The "Otis McBride Memorial Maple Festival" banner fluttered gently in the spring breeze, a reminder of a good man whose legacy would continue, and of a mystery solved through community, determination, and a librarian's eye for detail.

Lucy smiled to herself as she slipped her notebook—with its tentative title scrawled across the top page—into her bag. Perhaps Maisie was right. Perhaps there was a story worth telling here, a reflection of small-town life with all its secrets, scandals, and surprisingly effective amateur sleuths.

After all, in Brentwood Falls, the next chapter was always just around the corner, as rich and complex as the finest maple syrup. And Lucy Blackstone, town librarian and occasional detective, couldn't wait to discover what it might contain.

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